A Challenging Hostage
by wryter501
Summary: Young Merlin's magic is observed in Ealdor by Queen Annis, and he's offered adoption and the throne. Merlin learns what it means to be a prince and an enemy of Camelot - til the day he's captured by Prince Arthur's border patrol. Uther holds a prisoner with magic that he can't afford to execute, and Arthur meets a rational sorcerer for the first time. No slash.
1. The Surrogates

**A Challenging Hostage**

 **Chapter 1: The Surrogates**

Annis mused that if she closed her eyes and forced every muscle to relax into the padding of the seat she rode alone, the grinding whisper of the carriage wheels could almost be the night wind in the top of the pines in the heights to the north of the fortress, and this damned interminable trip more like one of the rides she'd taken with Thurston when they were young.

And squeezing her eyes closed helped keep tears at bay, too.

If she was riding a-horseback as she had as a young queen, too proud to be thought soft and too wild for dignity, the presence and attention of the accompanying warriors would serve to keep her chin up and her eyes dry.

But that was too many years ago now, to ignore. She wasn't young. And though no one could see her, riding inside the carriage alone – because Thurston would have to be dying to enter it, himself – she refused the weakness and consolation of tears.

Her eyes would remain dry and empty. As her body.

And the wheels rubbed and whispered and the frame creaked in rocking, and her head ached futilely with regret, and there was nothing and no one to distract her from this last and final disappointment – and what it would mean upon their return home. A king without an heir was a vulnerable person, after all, and though Thurston was a ferocious warrior, still, he wasn't getting any younger, either. He'd fought off half a dozen attempted takeovers in the last decade, and though he'd never say it, part of that was because he was too proud – or something – to set her aside for another marriage partner whose body might prove more fruitful.

Annis loved him fiercely for that, and ached at her inability to give him the one thing that might bring greater peace and wider stability to their spare, hard land.

Her heart jumped at a sharp rap on the flat roof of the carriage, a signal from the driver. She straightened on the seat and reached to unfasten the window shutter, glad at least that she would not show red eyes or damp cheeks to her husband.

He rode beside the carriage, bent to see her at the window, his body rocking in the saddle.

"We're over the border," he raised his voice to inform her, in the dry rasp that warmed her blood near her ear in the dark. "Coming up to a farm village. Would you like to stop for an hour or so?"

"Half an hour," she returned.

Because really she just wanted to get home to the sanctuary of her own chamber, the comfort of the thick soft furs underfoot and on the bed and she could be alone. Maegden, her maid, an intuitive and compassionate and thoroughly loyal girl, could be dismissed early. Thurston would drink hard with his men and come to bed late and pass out. He'd snore and she'd know that he never heard her if she was still crying by then.

He nodded, straightening to let out a shrill whistle and a series of hand signals to his men, conveying commands.

Annis left the window open, watching the limited square of the world with little interest. Damn Camelot was always so damn verdant – this wasn't Camelot any longer, as they'd crossed the recognized border, but currently unclaimed territory. She thought she hated Uther a little more at the evidence of his complacency – no need of more land, with the riches he already held, and so he made no move to expand his borders to the mountains. He already had his heir, also, and found their not-completely-hidden desperation amusing, maybe. Worthy of mockery, maybe.

Damn Gaius, too, she decided, watching the daub-huts with their messy thatched rooves grow larger as they approached. Peasant villagers, standing and shading a hand to watch, some of them hurrying to complete various chores or tasks so there would be time for curiosity and gossip.

They trundled ever closer and she realized – again, anew, it was always a pain in a new place, so that she preferred their castle at Beckon Cove to traveling – there would be the children.

Damn the caution of the physician – former sorcerer. His excuses, his side glances toward the liege-lord who held his vow to do no magic. Magic brought Uther his heir, ten years ago, and though he was violently dissatisfied still with the price, he refused Annis the chance to pay the same, to prove her love and her worth to her lord and husband, to make her life count for the kingdom of Caerleon.

Her view of the village was obscured again by her husband and his mount, as the carriage reached the center of the space between haphazardly-planned huts, and the driver pulled the horses to a halt.

She waited a moment more, for the man to jump down and reach the door to open it; when she stepped stiffly down to packed earth, she found Thurston dismounted and waiting for her.

"The well is there," he told her, pointing – not really looking at her. His dark eyes never rested one place long, always wary of the myriad dangers, so prevalent in their own kingdom it was habit even when they visited the softer valleys. "We'll water the horses. This is Geof, the village elder – if you need anything, ask him."

Lean fellow with wispy hair more white than gray, his face lined with years more than hardship. He ducked a shy bow at her.

She didn't care to drink her fill of fresh well-water, or she'd need to stop again soon – the men wouldn't mind, of course, but she didn't like to be the reason for more time wasted on the journey.

"I'd like to stretch my legs," she said to Geof. "Perhaps you might point me toward a scenic spot where I won't be disturbed."

The village elder blinked at her dumbly. Thurston shifted his weight and cast his gaze about – not impatient, but as always more comfortable with purposeful movement than inaction.

"Never mind," Annis said.

Seeing a young woman approach the well with a bucket, she brushed between the two men and made eye contact with her – only a girl, really – stalking across the packed earth of the village center to meet her. The girl was dressed in drab shapeless brown, the strings of her smudged apron giving her slim figure its only definition. She stared at Annis, but wasn't too distracted to hook her bucket on the line and feed it down the well until Annis was close enough to exchange a greeting.

"My – lady?" the girl said, with a pause of uncertainty.

Annis didn't correct her assumption of title. She had no time for the fussy-delicate fabrics of silk and satin; but though her gown was wool, it was dyed a rich dark blue and the bodice trimmed expertly with creamy embroidery.

"Would you like a drink?" the girl added, winding the well-wheel with sturdy capability. "It'll be cool – our well-water is fresh and good." She bent to retrieve the dripping bucket, and propped it on the stone edge of the well.

"Thank you." Annis dipped a cursory palm-ful, not doing much more than wetting her mouth. "My company intends to hold here for a while – perhaps you could tell me where I might go to be alone? In a place that is soothing to the senses, and restful?"

The girl smiled. "There's a stream. A hundred and a half paces yonder." She pointed down a row of village-huts, not to the fields but to the nearest edge of forest. "If you look for a clump of tall spruce trees, just beyond it the rocks form a small pool of water. You have to kind of push past the evergreen growth – and I don't think anyone else knows of it. Or at least if they do, they don't go there."

"Thank you very much," Annis said.

The girl dipped her head in acknowledgment. And instead of loitering to stare at Thurston and the band of armed warriors milling about with their mounts – no other horses in sight, in this village – she took her bucket in hand and moved away purposefully. No leisure time in her day, maybe – no curiosity? Or maybe she'd satisfied her curiosity already.

In watching the girl for a moment, Annis had turned back to where her husband was speaking to Geof the village elder, and Sir Geart. Thurston was scowling, his arms crossed over his chest, and her heart twisted within hers.

He was so gruff, not many realized that was not all there was to him, especially since he did not want anyone to realize what it had taken her a year of marriage to figure out. He was a man of action who viewed the world as a place to conquer – and now they had to admit defeat. Now they had to begin another sort of conflict – the succession of the throne of Caerleon.

Annis turned and lifted her skirt slightly with one hand to begin the trek to the forest, confident in her belt-knife and her ability to defend herself if need be.

Now they'd have to choose an heir not of the king's blood. And there was no clear candidate, someone who fit all criteria and would not cause conflict with some or others among the nobility and warriors. A good fighter, but also a thinker – young enough to be trained, but not foolish or intemperate. Not someone who'd alienate supporters with arrogance or ignorance. There wasn't anyone like that, though. A handful with some of the characteristics, but… with any of their choices, there would be conflict.

Annis reached the clump of spruce feeling like she'd run the whole way. Like she couldn't draw a deep, calm breath; like her stinging eyes would never clear again. She pushed through the last prickly bough of needles, and sank down on a low rock that had been exposed at the edge of the pool.

The stream babbled wonderingly to itself coming in and going out, as she let her chin fall down on her chest. She felt such a failure. Such shame, which was a black and bottomless feeling after the breathless light of courtship and wedding. There had been such energy, then, such eagerness for the future. Family, children, sons and warriors to follow Thurston's footsteps – maybe daughters to run as fast and laugh as readily and shoot as straight as their brothers. But she was barren… and not really ready for life and usefulness to be over. Not so soon.

She did not weep, but it was hard to control her breathing, and with her eyes squeezed shut and the sound of the water teasing her ears, she didn't realize she wasn't alone, right away.

Some whisper of sound or movement – a breath, or the click of a shifted stone… Annis raised her head, and startled the child.

Male, by the clothing. Trousers ragged over bare dirty feet – shirt cuffs probably in the same condition, but they were rolled to show bony wrists and knuckles. The garment was too large, exposing collarbones that were clean and pale and prominent; he was kept clean, then, and the grime the accumulation of a single day. It was the face that arrested attention, though, only slightly more than the attitude he'd frozen in.

Eyes deep and clear blue, holding her gaze with an expression somewhere between bold and bashful – mouth dropped open to breathe, cheekbones showing from a face too thin with a perpetual lack of sustenance. Black mop of hair endearingly disheveled over ears and brow. He was crouched on the stones by the pool-side just next to her – how had he gotten so close without her noticing? – stretching forward to lay a yellow flower at the edge of her crumpled skirt.

Annis held still, having no wish to frighten the boy who came to her. Who interested her. Maybe the only one ever, on both counts, no matter how she privately yearned for that special connection.

"Is that for me?" she asked in a near-whisper.

The boy nodded, opening his fingers to let it drop, then retreating back into his crouch. His gaze never wavered from hers.

"Thank you," she added, claiming the stem – but watching him in return. He showed no signs of flight.

"I make," he said, sounding calm and confident in an unself-conscious way – then correcting himself, "I give flowers to my mama when she's sad."

"Oh," Annis said, touched at the moment of vulnerability. "That's so nice of you."

He twitched a shrug, wrapping his arms around his knees and balancing on the rocks on bare soles. "Are you a queen?"

Annis felt her eyebrows lift. Brave and thoughtful and observant, for his age, though her experience was limited. "I am," she said. "How did you guess?"

"Your dress," he told her candidly. "No one wears a dress like that here."

And so he wasn't intimidated by her rank. In the moment of silence that followed his remark, and he didn't scamper away, she judged his age to be six or seven – too young to be tasked with gathering the forest's wild harvest of the autumn season, or the maintenance of traps or snares for rabbits or fowl. She heard no sounds of anyone else nearby, which meant-

"Are you out here by yourself?" she asked. He twitched another shrug that seemed evasive to her and she didn't smile, not letting him see her suspicion of mischief. "In _this_ place?" she added, indicating the secluded pool.

"Mama knows I come here," he explained. "To get away from the boys."

"The boys?" she repeated, to get him to keep talking. It was fascinating to her that this conversation was taking place at all; she felt somewhat illogically proud of accomplishing something worthwhile, as a stranger and an adult.

"They don't like me. They call me-" His eyes darted around to make sure they were alone, then he leaned forward to whisper the word, eyes wide at his own daring. "Bastard."

Annis' eyebrows rose again, slightly – surprised, and then not. "Really."

His forehead furrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down. "I don't know what it means. Mama says not to say words I don't know what they mean. Mama says that it's a bad word, and not to say those, either."

"Your mother is right," Annis agreed, looking him over again – the details of poverty and core cleanliness striking her differently to know his heritage and situation. And that was probably why the flowers for when she cried, too. "What of your father?"

"He went on a trip before I was born," the boy said, readily enough – repeating what he'd been told, no doubt. "He didn't come back. He might be dead. Why?" He tilted his head questioningly, and Annis found herself pleased to smile at him.

"That's what bastard means. That you don't have a father," she told him.

He thought a moment. "Do you have a father?"

"No, mine died several years ago." Belatedly she realized the connections he was making, and opened her mouth to correct him, but not quickly enough.

"Then you're a bastard, too," he pronounced happily, grin wide and blue eyes sparkling.

"No, I'm an orphan," she said. And to head off the next logical question about the difference, she asked, "What's your name?"

"Merlin," he said, his expression inviting her to be charmed with the revelation. Then, astonishingly, "M-E-R-L-I-N."

Her mouth dropped open, and her surprise delighted him. "Who taught you that?" she said. Letters – reading and spelling – were not commonly taught among the peasantry.

"Mama," he said smugly.

"Your mother is – a very special person," Annis told him. She added _clever_ to her mental list of his characteristics, and _curious_ which made education easy. And he had no father…

"I know," he said contentedly, rocking on his heels.

She lifted the flower he'd given her, several inches of stem without a leaf, and the yellow blossom at the top. "I think she deserves one of these, too, even if she's not sad today. Maybe we should bring…"

Annis paused, eyes on the daffodil she'd just identified by name, because… that was an early spring flower. An impossibility for several months, now. "Where did you get this?" she demanded.

Little black-haired Merlin twitched another shrug, dropping his grip of the legs folded to his chest to poke slender fingers at the exposed edges of the rocks in the earth beside the hidden forest pool. His head ducked, enough to hide behind the fringe of shaggy hair – but not so far that he couldn't keep an eye on her anymore.

 _I made_ , he'd said first. And the few sentences about his father – his age, and the village's proximity to the border with Camelot… where ruled a king whose fanatical hatred of magic after the death of his queen was well known.

But – something like _this_? At his age? Annis twirled the daffodil stem slowly, and could find no flaw in the shape or color. So which was more impossible?

"Merlin," she said, laying the flower in her lap and leaning closer. "We're friends, right?"

He cocked his head to eye her warily. He wasn't stupid, by any means.

"And friends tell each other things," she went on carefully; she didn't want to frighten him. "For instance, I know I can tell you that I was sad because… because I'm not a mama. I'd like to be, but I can't. And that makes me sad."

"Because a king and queen need a prince or princess," he said, relaxing again enough to speak – but not lifting his head.

She nodded. "Now it's your turn. Merlin, will you tell me… do you have magic?"

His head came up and his eyes flared terrified, and it was as good as a _yes_. But, he didn't pop up from his crouch to take to his heels.

She said, purposefully making her tone as kind and sympathetic as she could, "You do, don't you? Please don't be frightened, I think magic can be a very good gift to have."

But for such a child, bold and guileless and already ostracized in his village for his illegitimacy… so close to Uther's border. And if anyone knew the father's name – and the father had been caught in the Purge…

Annis made a decision. "Never mind that," she said, putting her hands on her knees and making a lengthy process of getting to her feet. "I'd like to meet your special mama. Do you think you can introduce me?"

He jumped up, worry forgotten in eagerness. "She's never met a queen!"

"Well, let's not delay," she answered, bending to brush spruce boughs out of their way.

He ducked and squirmed through ahead of her, and chattered enthusiastically as they walked, answering questions she had about their accustomed activities and household belongings and status within the village. His head came up to her elbow, and even with what she had in mind in her mind, she was surprised to find her hand straying of its own accord to that mop of could-be-silky black hair. Three separate times.

"My house is over there," Merlin announced when they reached the edge of the village. "Behind that one."

She touched his hair a fourth time, smoothing it back to lightly cup the back of his head, and he grinned up at her, hitching the shoulder of his ragged oversized shirt back up to his own bony shoulder.

"Yes," Annis said lightly. "But I'm going to speak to my husband a moment, first. Do you think your mother would like to meet a king?"

She regretted asking as soon as the question was past her lips. He stiffened, and all willing liveliness vanished from his person. The glance he gave her was as wary as when she'd inquired after the origins of the flower she held.

"A king?" he said cautiously.

Because of course the king he would have heard the most of was King Uther. And his atrocities. Colored by Merlin's mother's fear for her little son's life.

"King _Caerleon_ ," she answered, like nothing was amiss. Say what you would of comparisons between their kingdom and Camelot, at least this child had nothing to fear from Thurston. "That's where I live, the kingdom of Caerleon in the west and south. Would you like to see the sea someday?"

"See the sea," he repeated, and his anxiety seeped away.

Three of the warriors had marked her reappearance already, spread out through the huts in a ready-for-anything not-formation. One of them alerted Thurston to her return, and he swung about to face her; she was aware the rest of their men watched as closely as the villagers, to see the young boy with her – and Thurston was no fool. His eyes narrowed and his brows dropped, and he spoke before she could.

" _No_ , Annis."

She didn't argue. Didn't contradict his rather insulting conclusion of empty-headed feminine caprice, or an overwhelmingly frustrated maternal urge that fixated on the first convenient child. She didn't speak to promote the hints of character she'd seen of the child and his parent both, that could be fostered and nurtured, encouraged and trained.

Annis held out the daffodil, saying in a low voice, "He _made_ this."

Thurston would cheerfully allow himself to be tortured rather than reveal any knowledge of _flowers_ , but he realized the significance of the out-of-season blossom as she had. His eyes widened fractionally, and he shifted his gaze to the clear blue of Merlin's eyes.

Unprompted, Merlin said, "Good afternoon, Your Majesty," and bowed at the waist. Annis could have hugged him.

Thurston's eyebrows hiked toward his hairline, and he looked back at her. "His parents?"

"Only a mother," Annis said, trying to keep the triumph in her voice between the two of them. She watched him consider the choices they had back in Caerleon, and all the _yes-buts_ that inevitably followed each. If anyone was offended at this, at least all could be equally offended – and this choice admitted the possibility of a change in mind.

"Wot's 'e done now?" Geof the village elder ventured, trying to mix displeasure toward Merlin with a longsuffering attitude toward his royal visitors. "I 'pologize, Majesties. Won't happen again. We'll take care of it." He reached, and Annis shifted subtly between his hand and the boy.

"His mother's residence," Thurston demanded gruffly. The elder subsided, pointing out the hut that Merlin had already identified to her.

Thurston led them both, scowling frequently down at the boy who skipped oblivious. "Are you sure?" he demanded bluntly of her.

"It's a better option than all the rest," she pointed out, secretly thrilled. Spur-of-the-moment decisions weren't always the best, but they were exciting, and sometimes stopping to think logically ended in regrets for things left undone.

He glanced sideways at the daffodil, and said nothing further, til they reached one of the huts on the edge of the village; the girl Annis had met at the well stepped through the doorway to shake out a square of cloth. _Her_ , Annis thought in pleased surprise, _perfect_.

"Mama!" Merlin exclaimed, darting ahead.

The girl made a happy sound, bracing herself as he threw his arms around her waist – immediately smoothing the hand she freed from the dirty cloth down the back of his head. Then she realized their presence, and made the noise sound shocked. "Oh!"

"A king and queen, Mama!" Merlin informed her. "They wanted to meet you!"

The girl's eyes dropped to the impossible daffodil, and she lost all color, clutching her young son's thin shoulders as her gaze darted from Annis to Thurston and back again.

"No," Annis said immediately, stepping forward and offering her hand. "No, please. We mean you no harm – we're not here to take anything from you. But rather, to offer you something."

The girl might have been a doe, and Thurston the hunter. Merlin was motionless under her hands, not comprehending more than her reaction; his eyes were enormous and his lips pinched together. Annis took another step.

"My name is Annis," she said to the girl. "We're from Caerleon – on our way back home, now. I would be grateful for a few minutes of your time."

The girl backed into the doorway, drawing her son with her. "I'm Hunith," she said, still watching Thurston. "You're welcome inside."

Clearly, speaking to Annis. But her husband wouldn't want to be inside the hut anyway; he didn't like small spaces, and preferred the outdoors, always.

She followed Hunith into the little hut – surprisingly well-furnished, though maybe it was inherited from her parents – and surprisingly clean. Hunith gestured for her to be seated on a crudely built bench and she did so, aware of Thurston dropping to a crouch in the doorway, sideways so he could see both directions. Hunith wiped her hands unnecessarily on her apron, ignoring Annis' patted invitation to join her on the bench.

"If Merlin disturbed your privacy by the pool, I'm so very sorry," the girl said.

Merlin made a noise of protest, like he was disappointed that his mother should think him capable of poor behavior; it made Annis smile once again.

"Not at all. You see, we are just leaving Camelot –" both of them tensed – "where we were consulting with Gaius about our – my inability to conceive an heir for my husband."

Annis' throat wanted to stick shut on the painful admission, but she realized only honesty would convince Hunith of her sincerity. Hunith went to the corner to dip a wooden cup of water; offering it to Annis, she perched on the opposite end of the bench.

"We've been trying for years, you see," Annis said huskily. "A kingdom without an heir has – little chance of settling to peace, for very long. We thought – perhaps whatever Uther Pendragon did for his prince… We thought Gaius could help."

The girl made a noise of comprehension, and relaxed; Annis wondered if the court physician's fame had spread even here.

"We were disappointed. And now we must decide, which of the boys of our acquaintance we will name as the heir to the throne. Only – that is not a simple choice, nor one we expect to be accepted without conflict. So many will want their son chosen, and the jealousy of being passed over in favor of a rival… And this boy is good with a sword, but has no intellect to speak of; and this boy is smart but throws violent tantrums; and this boy will likely be poisoned by his oafish older brother before the week is out if we choose him; and this boy has frightfully humiliating familial connections."

Thurston turned his head slightly at that and informed Hunith succinctly, "Incest."

"Oh," she said, startled.

"There is another option," Annis said gently. "We might adopt a boy entirely unknown to our noble families and warriors. Someone who will show no favoritism or prejudice, but rule fairly and evenly, when it comes to it. Someone who shows potential, but is yet young enough to be trained to the authority and responsibility of the throne."

"Someone who can handle power without being overwhelmed or manipulated," Thurston offered suddenly.

Annis thought Hunith might have stopped breathing. Her knuckles were white around fistfuls of her apron.

"Your Merlin is brave." She was almost whispering, so careful not to frighten the peasant girl. "And compassionate and polite. You've begun teaching him letters? And the magic, Hunith…"

She lifted her hands to cover her mouth. Watching them from the hearth, Merlin tilted his head curiously, alert to his mother's emotions.

"You cannot possibly mean to…"

"We could begin with a trial period," Annis suggested softly. "If you were unhappy with the arrangement for any reason… and we would provide for your future and his, regardless, this I swear."

Hunith began shaking her head – in disbelief, though, not refusal. "I have thought… for quite some time, now. That he was not meant to be a farmer. But… ye gods. A k-" She couldn't say the word. It would probably take a lot of getting used to.

"Well, it won't be tomorrow, woman," Thurston said testily from the doorway. "I am neither old nor infirm. What of his father?"

Hunith shifted to look at him past Annis. "A refugee from Camelot." Which was to say, a sorcerer. "He thought to settle here, but… Uther's arm is long, and we have no ruler for protection, here. We'd… we'd promised our fidelity to each other in private, but… He was afraid, if the knights came here, they'd discover us. And they did – he left ahead of them and they ignored me…" She straightened and smoothed her hands over her waist, looking at Merlin; Annis surmised the girl hadn't been showing her babe yet, at the time. "We've heard nothing of him, since. He's probably dead."

"Strong, was he?" Thurston demanded.

"I don't know how to gauge that, sire," Hunith answered, understanding that he meant _magic_ , without saying the word in front of Merlin. "His use of it was… often, and easy. It seemed to me. Ay gods, is this happening."

Annis reached to squeeze one of her hands. "If the idea comes to nothing, or if you decide this is not his path, for any reason – please still consider how much safer the two of you might be, in Caerleon. Uther would never dare set foot across the border, you know. And I find… I doubt I could forget your little Merlin, now." She looked at him, and he grinned back at her, causing her heart to expand almost painfully in her chest. "I believe I would worry," she admitted quietly. "Leaving him – and you – behind, without knowing."

"So I could come," Hunith said in a rush.

"Of course!" Annis was surprised, and a little dismayed that she hadn't made conditions clear. "No, I don't wish to take him away from you – come and welcome. His care will be entirely up to you, with all our resources – only in his education and training would we be his surrogate parents."

Thurston shifted to eye the boy sitting on his heels at the hearth. Merlin's spine straightened, and he looked back at the king thoughtfully, too. Hunith huffed a little laugh at the sight.

"If we came with you," she said. "It would be now?"

Annis felt wings unfurl from her spirit. Bless fate or destiny or whatever blind chance guided their stop and this meeting. Meant to be.

"You can have an hour to pack," Thurston said brusquely, his attention outward again.

"Pack light," Annis told Hunith, who still seemed uncertain. "We can provide you with anything you need."

"We're going with you?" Merlin spoke up suddenly.

Hunith looked at him. "Would you like to?"

The boy hopped up and came to stand between them at the bench. He studied Annis a moment, then looked his mother over, leaning comfortably and instinctively into her embrace, even as he smiled at Annis. "To a castle?"

"Yes," she said. "And a bed of your own –" the hut had a single room, and a single bed they probably shared – "and a horse to learn to ride…"

"And a pretty new dress for Mama?" he suggested.

They both ignored Hunith trying to shush him – which impressed Annis with Merlin's priorities and his mother's manners.

"Of course," she said.

And didn't add, _And no one will ostracize you for a bastard son, and you will never worry for food or shoes or a sound roof over your head_ …

"Please," Annis added, and it was a word she rarely said.

Hunith seemed to hear that, and gave her head a slow nod. "We will… be ready to leave in an hour."

Thurston pushed upright, reaching into his belt pouch and stepping far enough into the hut to hand Merlin what turned out to be two gold pieces on his small grubby palm.

"One you can hide here," he said shortly. "One you can carry with you. For your peace of mind, and independence. Til you trust my honor, and that of my men."

"Can I hide it, Mama?" Merlin said excitedly.

Hunith was relieved at the gesture and its implications, Annis could tell – and she was glad. The girl gave a smile and a nod to her little son; he flipped one coin in the air. His eyes flashed gold and the coin disappeared, and Merlin laughed.

The happy childish sound made Annis' breath catch in her throat.

And Thurston was smiling.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gaius stood in the sun in the courtyard of Camelot's gleaming white citadel, hands hidden in his sleeves, outwardly composed. Inside, he missed Alice so acutely it felt like he was bleeding from a mortal wound – small, hidden, slow… Time was said to heal all wounds. He could only wait to see if the saying proved true, in his case.

But it was an undeniable truth that she should be here now, today – being female, she could have expected to handle the care of their expected charge much better than an old bachelor like him could. With firm compassion and genuine empathy.

If Alice was here today, he wouldn't _be_ an old bachelor.

And he had to quit thinking like that.

"Have I ever met her before?" said the boy whose sun-reflecting golden hair came just past Gaius' elbow.

Gaius looked down at him – handsome, strong, sturdy – and not nearly as confident as he was growing adept at making people think. Feet planted, shoulders squared, fingers tucked together behind his back – and gnawing his lip.

"Not to my knowledge, sire," he told the boy. "Morgana was born in Trevena, a full season after Lord Gorlois brought her lady mother to the estate. None of the family have been back to Camelot..."

"Until today," Arthur finished for him, lifting his chin and swaying just a bit with contained impatience.

Gaius followed his line of sight, down the bottom half of the courtyard stairs to where the king his father waited even more impatiently.

Tellingly, also, which caught Gaius' attention. Uther had seemed surprisingly eager to fulfill his promise to Gorlois; more than just keeping a promise or satisfying guilt, he actually seemed to be anticipating the arrival of a nine-year-old orphaned Lady to a palace with no queen to direct household affairs. Gaius kept his sigh to himself, wondering how often medical care was going to translate into emotional care for a second child.

A sudden disturbance at the raised portcullis disrupted his thoughts, however; the arrival of the carriage they all – from busy king to attendant stable boy – had been requested to await personally. For the last half of an hour.

The Gorlois carriage, which now belonged to the little Lady. Gaius spared a thought for the older sister no one spoke of – if she lived and was well, and where. Since there was no congregation of sorceresses at the Isle any longer, destruction and dispersion the result of the recent siege that had claimed Gorlois' life.

And what in the wide green world was he to do if the younger sister – the ward of magic-hating King Uther Pendragon – had _m_ -

Gaius forbid himself even to think it.

The carriage came to a stop, and Uther himself leaped forward to open the door. Every person in Gaius' field of vision leaned, simultaneously, to better see the interior of the carriage and its unseen passenger. Arthur rose to his tiptoes.

And Uther backed, slowly and carefully, drawing a slip of a girl – emerald silk and a cascade of black curls – out of the carriage. Dainty slipper on the stair, and you might have heard a pin drop, in the courtyard. And then she was down on the cobblestones, slim and straight and proud – very much like her mother, Gaius remarked to himself.

"Welcome to your new home, Morgana," Uther was saying, bending to her level, and his voice was so warm and happy that Gaius found himself startled. How long had it been since his king had used that tone to address _anyone_?

"May I introduce Prince Arthur, my son and heir," Uther continued, beckoning the boy with a blind gesture, as he kept his gaze focused on the small emerald beauty.

Arthur hesitated. But only a moment, before descending the stair with a dignity he didn't always present – so Gaius knew it was deliberate. He stopped at arms'-length from the king's new ward and inclined his head stiffly. "Welcome to Camelot, Lady Morgana."

She didn't respond.

"And Gaius, our court physician," Uther continued, and it was Gaius' turn to descend and meet the young Lady.

She was very pale – sunlight and plenty of fish, eggs, and milk in her meals – and her eyes were red-rimmed. Sleeplessness, grief, bad dreams – maybe a tonic or a draught tailored to her needs. But her chin was up and her gaze steady, and Gaius smiled as he bent over her small slim hand. "My lady."

"Your chambers are ready for you," Uther said, his hand gentle on her shoulder.

Arthur's eyes were on his father's hand.

"You may take as much time as you need, to rest after your trip. Anything you like to eat can be sent up to you, and as soon as you feel ready, I would be delighted to show you around your new home myself. Now–"

Uther turned to the plainly-dressed woman, brown braid wrapped around her head, who'd stepped down from the carriage unassisted, unobtrusively waiting behind Lady Morgana, her face smoothed of expression and her gaze lowered.

"I understand you were traveling with your own maid – I'm sure she'll become sufficiently acquainted with the citadel to fill your needs in no time as well."

Morgana lifted her chin to look up at the king, and except for the young crown prince at his elbow, Gaius had never seen such an evaluating look on a person so small, or so feminine in all other ways.

"I don't want Dunna anymore," she said in a clear, even voice. "I want a new maid. Someone from Camelot. Someone my own age."

The woman's lips pressed together slightly, but otherwise she didn't react to protest. Gaius guessed that her charge had been a handful the past few weeks – not only bereaved but orphaned, and at nine years old, she outranked all the adults around her. He found himself glad that he was not meant to be the young Lady's guardian – the prince was a handful himself as it was, and he was not parentless.

Arthur was frowning. Last month - Gaius knew because he'd been subjected to the prince's repeated complaints – Uther had summarily rejected the same request from his son, to be given a personal servant who was _not_ an adult charged with care and safety and mannerly upbringing.

"Yes of course," Uther said immediately. "First thing tomorrow morning, I will have potential candidates waiting for you to interview. For tonight, though, perhaps your own – or another can be appointed to you temporarily?"

Lady Morgana thought. Then nodded gravely. "Another, please. I wish to become accustomed to Camelot as soon as I may."

Very mature of her, Gaius thought. But he was not impressed with her casual dismissal of the faithful servant who'd left her own home many leagues distant, even if they hadn't gotten along.

The king turned away to speak to his steward about the arrangements, and Morgana shifted her weight as if tired or bored – and faced Arthur almost by accident. For a moment she studied him expressionlessly; his blue eyes flicked to Gaius with something of a question or plea in them. He'd never had female playmates.

He said to her, "Can you hold your breath and swallow at the same time? I can."

Gaius bit back a smile at the young prince's idea of a conversational topic meant to put her at her ease.

Again, Morgana didn't respond. She only stared at him coolly another moment, then looked away. Arthur's face fell.

Gaius wanted to assure him that the failure to connect was not his fault. That the girl was hurting and probably frightened, and dealing with her change of situation the best she could. There would be time for all of them to adjust.

"Arthur," the king said impatiently. "Stop teasing her. Come, Morgana, I will walk with you to your chamber."

He put his hand on her shoulder again, tenderly solicitous, and took each step slowly at her side, speaking to her occasionally though she didn't appear to answer. Gaius glanced around to see that the faces watching the two wore expressions of pleased approval – _a lady in Camelot again, how appropriate, perhaps she'll soften the king a bit, he needs a touch of femininity in his life_ …

Arthur stood and watched them go, unmoving, and it was rare that Gaius could not tell what the boy was thinking.

"There will be changes," he said gently, patting the prince's shoulder. "But it will all be for the best, I'm sure."

Arthur tore himself away from Gaius' hand, and dashed across the courtyard.

Gaius watched him go, and sighed.

He missed Alice.

* * *

 **A/N** : **Next chapter, Merlin raids across the border at Caerleon's command, and Arthur makes the capture.**

So this is my new WIP. Because there was a tie in the poll, I went with the story that I had a chapter ready for… But "Past Faults and Future Perils" will be next after this, then.

Few details: I can't make any guarantees about updates or chapter length, I'll just be up front about that. It'll employ multiple POV's, including Arthur and Merlin and Morgana (I'm going to try to remember to start the section with the name of the character whose POV I'm employing). I'm going to explore some Mergana eventually, but at this point I'm not planning for that to be the endgame for this arc…

I'm going to include some chapters or sections of their childhood like this one – Merlin, Morgana, and Arthur – as it bears relevance to the current complication (beginning of season 3).

And sections of synopsis, where the episodes of seasons 1 and 2 happened differently because Merlin did not come to Camelot. To clarify: doing it this way might make it seem like I think, things would have been 'better' if Merlin hadn't come (especially when it comes to Morgana's choices), but I don't want to give that impression – not better, just different. I don't believe that Arthur would have been dead the first 'episode' without Merlin there to save him; I believe that because he has a destiny to fulfill, he's going to fulfill it. And if it's not Merlin's responsibility to protect him in these few specific incidents, then someone else is going to fill in, either directly or because the situation itself rolls differently. Also, I don't mean to imply that Merlin bears any fault, directly or indirectly, in Morgana's choices in-canon; the differences with her character are, I believe, because her character is very likely to be influenced by the situation and attendant emotions, more than ingrained standards.

Also (long author's note, sorry), because 'Caerleon' seems to refer to the man, his castle, and his kingdom, I've taken the liberty of giving him a first name, and another for their castle, though they wouldn't necessarily be familiar enough with outsiders for the usage to become common. Therefore, Thurston and Annis, king and queen of Caerleon.


	2. Surrendering to Destiny

**Chapter 2: Surrendering to Destiny**

Merlin rose and dressed by moonlight.

It was no hardship; the shutters and windows of his bedchamber were open to the early spring night air – and besides, he'd left everything laying ready the night before. Boots that came up to the knee of his deerskin trousers, and hid two slim blades, good for throwing and close-quarters combat. Clean purple-blue tunic under his breastplate – boiled leather sewn with metal rings, heavy and stupid but he'd never say that aloud – and bracers fitted around the sleeves, elbows to palms. His blue-purple cloak that could be tied to give him hood or scarf or veil or a combination of all three, that also doubled as a bedroll. It was fastened to keep clear of the hilt of his sword that jutted over his right shoulder from its sheath his mother had sewn into the back portion of his armor, keeping it clear of his legs. He didn't need sword and sheath at his hip to remind all of the king's warriors of the clumsiness of his heir; everyone knew he tripped over the air itself occasionally when he wasn't paying attention to his feet.

Merlin paused at the window to inhale the crisp pre-dawn stillness and listen to whispers of the breeze passing through tangy pines on the northern heights.

Down in the bailey the two dozen warriors of his company would be making last-minute adjustments to armor and weaponry and the packs they'd carry for food and camp. He alone would have a horse saddled for him, and those details seen to by a servant.

He almost wished his mother would wake in her adjoining chamber, though he'd taken care to be quiet. Now that it was _now_ , there was a part of him that wished he was still a child, to be allowed to stay at Beckon Cove, safe and uninvolved, when the king led his warriors out.

But his mother was a woman, and didn't understand. That young, uncertain part of him wasn't sure _he_ understood – and was nowhere near in agreement with his king's philosophy and orders. Maybe it was best if his mother slept through their leave-taking this morning; they'd already said what they needed to, last night. She was proud of him no matter what; he promised to be careful in his actions and thoughtful in his decisions.

Sometimes he gave words to his feelings with Tythan, the senior knight who'd been in charge of his training since he reached thirteen summers. But though Tythan would join him on this venture, he would be serving for the first time _under_ Merlin's command, and that would be awkward, at best.

A year ago, he could have talked the matter over with Alator, his tutor in magic. Alator was very good at putting Merlin's questions into perspective – not just as they affected his family or himself, or even the kingdom that would be his, in future. But as it affected mankind, and history; answers sometimes became unnecessary, from that humbling viewpoint. But Alator had confessed to the king and queen that he had no more to teach Merlin, and he was left with copies of all half-dozen of the druid's books and a promise of correspondence, and memories of years of lessons.

And… now there was no reason to linger. The king would send someone to fetch him, and he shouldn't give the impression of reluctance to the men. In spite of how he'd tried one last time to respectfully dissuade the king at dinner last night.

So Merlin left his bedchamber, crossed the front hall, and descended the steps cut into the hill the palace-tower of Beckon Cove was built upon, down to the bailey. He looked, but he didn't see Freya either; he wasn't sure whether it _quieted_ his spirit to think of her abed and asleep, exactly. They'd said a farewell last night also that left his skin and lips tingling to remember, but hopefully it wouldn't be long til he returned.

Successful, or not? What would _success_ look like, though?

The bailey was lit with torchlight that flickered in the movement of air. Shadows bounced from the walls of the large barracks and small stables and aromatic bakehouse, all the familiar sides of the home he hadn't left for the last dozen years. The warriors with their hoods and scarves and veils were indistinguishable one from another, but the king and queen were readily identifiable, waiting near the dun gelding that had been his since his first match-victory.

The queen turned to his approach, taking a few steps to meet him. Her hair was unbound and her movements bespoke energy, almost excitement, and it made the hole in the pit of his stomach swell just a bit.

He wasn't sure he wanted to succeed in his mission – or what it would say of him as a person, a man and a sorcerer, if he did – but he was quite sure he didn't want to fail. Not because his standing in Caerleon depended on it, but because it _didn't_. He would still be the adopted-heir of the throne, but it would reflect badly on his ability to lead and rule, and on the surrogate parents who'd brought him up to the position and role.

"Your Majesty," he said to Annis, bowing properly. He rarely did that – far from being required, the courtesies he was taught were for other royals. Neither Thurston nor Annis wanted subservience from their people – only respect.

It made her smile brighten, this early morning, and she inclined her head in a return bow. "Your Highness."

The hole in his stomach lurched unevenly.

But she reached for his hand – bypassing it to grip his bracer-clad forearm like a male companion. Like he'd seen the warriors greet each other, and like only Sir Tythan had ever done with him, to begin and end his training sessions.

"You're nervous," the queen added, and it wasn't a question. He flushed, but hopefully in the poor light she didn't notice. "Whatever Thurston says, remember this – jealousy makes him cranky. He'd give just about anything to be in your boots this morning. Nineteen, and headed out to lead your first raid."

"I'll trade with him," Merlin blurted honestly, and Annis laughed.

"You're going to be brilliant," she told him, squeezing his wrist before giving him a tug in the direction of his gelding. "Your mother is proud of you, and I believe in you-"

And it was almost enough, Merlin thought, seeing the king twist to watch him over his shoulder as they approached. He was scowling; though he always scowled, it made Merlin feel self-consciously tardy, or forgetful of some important detail. Not quite strong enough, not quite quick enough, though the warriors kept in attendance at Beckon Cove were all older than he. Training of the younger generation was left to fathers and uncles at home, and they were presented to the king when they were ready to be acclaimed capable and formidable warriors in their own right.

"What if I'm utterly _not_ brilliant?" he said to her in a low voice.

"Then you'll learn a valuable lesson for next time," Anns said, unperturbed.

Merlin gave the king a nod that was almost a bow. "Your Majesty."

"I want Evorwick, and I want Stonedown," the king said gruffly, without preamble. Repeating the instructions he'd already given Merlin for the sake of the troop of warriors he was meant to lead. "By sword or by spell, don't much care which."

A fine shudder of reluctance rippled through Merlin. But really, what choice did he have? To obey his king because… he couldn't _not_. Not after who they'd made him and all they'd done for him and his mother. He couldn't betray Thurston and Annis, sneaking out to take his horse some starless night and ride til he was a stranger, a nobody. He couldn't betray his mother's choice to give him to them and this destiny like that, nor his own soul and conscience, repaying what he owed with disappointment.

"Yes, my lord," he said only.

If Thurston had doubts, he didn't show them as clearly as he so often did on the training field – Merlin running with sweat and trembling with exertion and nerves to be under the king's eyes. And every time it was, _Again, boy, try again, you'll get it right soon_.

The king stepped close, to hand Merlin the reins he himself had been holding, and nailed him in place with his dark gaze – finally on level with Merlin's own; at least he didn't have to steel himself to meet those eyes _and_ look up. He rasped, "I know what you're thinking."

 _Highly doubt that_ , Merlin thought, keeping his expression even and respectful, fighting the urge to drop his eyes to the toes of his boots, knowing how much that irritated the forthright king.

"You think, because we disagree, that I don't understand you – what you're capable of and what you find distasteful," the king went on. "Hells, you should have heard the shouting matches I got into with my father at your age… so I know. I remember being young and untried, and how difficult and uncertain that can be."

Merlin was taken aback; he couldn't deny that feeling a resonance with the king's words, though Thurston had never known magic.

"In this world," the king said in his growling voice, "you have to fight for knowledge of yourself – who you are and what you can do, what you will do. Fight for the leadership of your loyal men. No one is going to simply tell you your destiny – you've got to fight to discover it. Huh?" He gave the front of Merlin's breastplate – where the symbol of his inheritance hung hidden from a silver chain around his neck - a firm punch, in spite of the armored rings, and never winced.

Merlin winced, but hid it, and replied as firmly as he could, "Yes, my lord."

"Gods go with you, boy," the king said, making an abrupt motion for Merlin to mount – and stepping past him to bellow at the warriors as he swung up to the saddle. "His life is in your hands, as yours are in his. Respect that! Make him proud! Victory at any cost!"

The warriors gave a great enthusiastic shout of general agreement, excitement, obedience.

And Merlin had to press his heels to the dun gelding's flanks to keep up as they jogged in a loose mass for the gate in the palisade. He didn't look back, though he wanted to. He could be neither weak nor uncertain, in the eyes of his men.

It occurred to him, as he ducked to ride through the gate and into the wide beyond, that the hole gnawing and lapping at his insides, might very well be loneliness.

* * *

 _In the spring of Arthur's twentieth year, a feast was held to commemorate and celebrate the progress the king had made in his war on magic, though there was still a measure of dissent in his own household. Arthur was absent from the execution of a man convicted of association with a magic-user earlier in the week, and Lady Morgana, King Uther's ward, was absent from the feast. Which was a pity, because this particular feast generated gossip for years. Lady Helen of Mora was to grace the company with her near-legendary singing – except the lady wasn't Helen. So happened that a young servant near the stairway had the presence of mind to cover his ears and block out the music when he saw the effects of the enchantment – and in turning to scurry away, his outstretched elbow knocked the cleat on the wall where the chain anchoring the light fixture was secured. The cleat was not secured, and the entire structure came crashing heavily down on the lady who was not Helen. This ended the enchantment, but not the lady – who used magic to direct a throwing knife at the prince, intending to take the son of her enemy as her own son was taken. The knife struck the prince in the shoulder, inflicting a wound that took two weeks to heal and left not only a scar, but a lingering soreness that worsened occasionally in times of increased physical stress._

 _However, Prince Arthur would not be dissuaded from entering the tournament that took place less than a week after the court physician removed the last bandage, not after the speech the king made, which emphasized the courage of the participants. But, as courage is a spiritual strength rather than a physical, Arthur struggled in his first match against a knight of the Western Isles – a knight who sought to assure his victory with surreptitious and prohibited magic. Fortunately – because fortune favors the brave – as the snake which materialized from the knight's enchanted shield struck, its fang turned on and entangled with the bandages Arthur used to pad and support his previously wounded arm and shoulder. With Arthur's testimony and the actual snake-fang for evidence, Knight Valiant was convicted of the use of sorcery and summarily executed. Beheaded on the same platform which had seen another such, before the celebratory feast. This time, Arthur attended._

* * *

Merlin took a deep breath to slow his pulse, and waited for the inevitable reaction from his troops.

"You want to _what_?" said the nearest warrior, his incredulity far clearer than his identity.

Merlin knew the names of each man in his company, but wasn't familiar enough with their voices or mannerisms to know who was who when all were wearing scarf or veil. Even his trainer Sir Tythan was no more than a guess, lost again when he moved among the others; he was seeking to make himself the opposite of a favorite on this Merlin's first command.

"I want to talk to them," he repeated, trying to keep his tone even rather than defensive. Trying to ignore the murmuring in the ranks of warriors crouching in hiding at the edge of the forest bordering the fields of Evorwick. In Caerleon, dissent was allowed – even encouraged, to prove the strength of the winning argument, and arguer – and he knew it would be so. "I want you all to spread out between the points of the compass in half of an hour, and no one breaks cover til I reach the village itself."

It could have been Ealdor. His memories of the village where he'd been born were vague after so many years, and his experience limited, but his impression of villages in general was, one very like the next.

"Come openly and slowly and as nonthreateningly as possible," he continued – and now the murmurs were dissatisfied as well as disbelieving. "I want no one to escape to bring word to Camelot – but I want no one hurt, either."

"What about in self-defense?" someone growled.

"That goes without saying," Merlin answered. He did not look toward the speaker, feeling uncertainty flutter uncomfortably around his middle. "We can take their crops and goods, but that's a one-time thing. If the king wants to enjoy profit from these villages for years to come, then we need the people in place and content. Is that clear to everyone?"

Grumble, grumble. No words were distinguishable, though, which meant he didn't have to address them.

"All right, then," he said, trying to sound confident. "Half of an hour. Head out."

For one terrifying moment – heart pounding and mouth dry – he wasn't sure he was going to be obeyed. Then the warriors began to move, creeping out to either side.

Merlin held his position, squinting across the sunlit fields toward unsuspecting Evorwick, trying to decide what would come after. Take the portion intended for their current lord, obviously, but how to keep Evorwick after today? Threatening would not secure their loyalty to Caerleon. Taking hostages might force cooperation – if it was late autumn he might considering having everyone pack everything and relocate, leaving Camelot with an empty village and no one to work the land – but there was no land for them to work anywhere in Caerleon, either. Not since the king could not see Merlin's side of the disagreement.

 _Why not use magic to enrich what we already have?_

No, it was a matter of principle to the king. Take, take by force, and especially take from Uther Pendragon. And all the warriors heartily agreed.

When the last warrior was out of sight, Merlin swung himself into the saddle of his gelding and guided his mount back out to the track leading into the village. He rode at an amble, hoping to be taken for an ordinary traveler as long as possible, and so to spark no apprehension. Or defense.

He'd heard the story from his mother, of how the king and queen of Caerleon had come to Ealdor, and it made his mouth twist to think of the irony, as he rode close enough to draw attention and curiosity – and by the time he reached the first huts, he hoped no one was going to notice the slow approach of the warriors. At least not right away.

A thin-faced young man who peered through strands of dark hair over his eyes, kept pace with Merlin, further into the village, eyeing the sword-hilt that emerged over his shoulder. Merlin watched for anyone else to step forward in a leadership role, but could read nothing of that from the others, though the young man did not move like a fighter. Perhaps he'd inherited the role recently from a parental figure; Merlin could relate.

"Good morning," Merlin said to him politely.

"Noon's more like," was the answer. "You lost? 'At color 'ere belongs on t'other side of th' border."

"I guess you could say I'm something of an emissary," Merlin told him, speaking loudly and clearly for the others gathering around to hear. Old men and women, middle-aged parents, young and awkward, and inattentive children. He reined in.

"Emissary?" the young man said, disdainful of the word.

"I bring you a message from the king of Caerleon," Merlin said, letting his eyes flick from one to the next to include them all. Appearing calm and collected was something he was quite practiced in, after all this time. "He covets your land and your loyalty, and would claim both away from Camelot. I can negotiate for a reduction in taxes, if the transfer is made without violence, and I will be leading a contingent of our warriors to protect you from retaliation from Pendragon."

"What?" the young man said, confused.

"Warriors?" someone else said.

The crowd began to move like a school of fish, and Merlin's words like pebbles tossed among them. Someone screamed suddenly, and then it seemed everyone was pointing, between the huts in every direction. How close were his men? How nonthreateningly were they behaving?

"It's a raid!" shouted the young man, chin up to peer widely through the hair over his eyes.

"No, it's not a raid," Merlin tried to say, controlling his gelding instinctively as it reacted to the disquiet of the crowd. "We have no plans to hurt you, we will take only the portions intended for Camelot's taxes, and then we'll-"  
"Raid!" someone shrieked. "Raid!"

The crowd dissolved into chaos, and the first of the veiled warriors came into view – axe raised ready to chop the nearest male villager.

"Thieves! Bandits!"

"No!" Merlin shouted across the heads – and flicked the axe out of the warrior's hands with a motion of his own. "No, we mean you no harm!"

He wouldn't have thought it possible to generate _more_ panic. Suddenly everyone was frantic to get away from him, which shoved their friends and neighbors closer to the warriors surrounding them.

" _Magic_! Heaven preserve us!"  
Twisting in his saddle, he saw another one of his warriors punch a villager full in the face, dropping him to the ground – and immediately after, the woman who began beating at him with her fists.

That was it, and that was all. The villagers had tools – hammers, and knives – and the warriors had come to fight, after all. No one seemed to hear Merlin yelling for peace and sense above the frightened screaming and war-cries. He plucked weapons every other second, and still there were more every way he turned. Bodies on the ground. One small child alone in the crowd, sobbing.

Merlin cursed – himself, his men, his king who'd ordered this, and wasn't here.

And reached for his magic. Air and earth – and a flattening gale blew through the village, gusting suddenly and solid against people whose footing was shaken with the earth beneath. He was almost thrown from his saddle, and it took him a good few seconds to control the gelding as most of the people were indiscriminately tossed to the ground.

"Enough!" he bellowed furiously into the startled silence - feminine whimpering, juvenile weeping, the moaning of the insensate injured. "Evorwick and all its lands are now Caerleon's, by right of conquest!" he continued, his throat aching inordinately from the shouting, and it sparked tears to his eyes. "Women and children and injured, back to your homes! All the rest, assemble a tenth portion here in the center of the village within one hour's time and don't tempt me with prevarication!"

Another moment passed, everyone – even his own men – staring at him. He hoped they couldn't see how he trembled. But no one made a move to obey, either.

"Now!" he commanded, so suddenly and emphatically that the gelding flinched under him.

And then everyone was moving, scrambling and rushing; the villagers ducked away from the warriors and the warriors postured belligerently to hurry them. To act like they hadn't all been knocked on their backsides, too.

" _Filthy sorcerer_."

He pretended he hadn't heard the villager's comment.

"Damn evil magic… now you see, don't you, why…"

There was no overt grumbling, but he knew his men were shooting him occasional glances, too. Unhappy with the outcome, with the embarrassment to them, of how he'd chosen to end it.

That could've gone a lot better. And it wasn't an excuse to say, it could've gone worse.

And he had to do it again tomorrow at Stonedown. And hope to heaven it was good enough to secure the two villages as a permanent part of Caerleon. Otherwise…

Two women laid an apron over the face of a young brown-haired man, at the other end of the open central area of the village. One immediately covered her own face with her hands, and the other embraced her shoulders, though no sound of obvious mourning cut through the rest of the nervous-edged noise.

Merlin felt like he was going to be sick.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur, sweaty and weary from the day's patrol, pushed through the double doors into the council chamber in answer to the king's summons, waiting for him at his return.

The king looked up – then stood immediately and moved forward to meet him, with the same air of expectancy he'd worn for nearly a year now. It was a look that exhausted Arthur even more than a day spent in the saddle under falling snow or clenching tight against a blowing gale. How did his father have the energy to anticipate good news, anymore? It simply wasn't logical, not after so long without a single word.

"Arthur – what news?"

"Nothing," Arthur admitted. "We interrogated the slavers we caught, and their captives. No one had seen or heard of anyone matching her description."

The king's countenance didn't fall as far as it might have – and often had done, over the last months. _He_ had news, then, and thus the summons? Arthur inhaled sharply, feeling new strength surge back into his body and mind.

"We've had reports of border unrest in the southwest," his father told him.

Arthur did the geography lesson in a blink. "Caerleon?"

"Or someone who wants us to think it's a problem with Caerleon," Uther said, narrowing his eyes. "Someone who wants to keep moving, to keep from being discovered."

Someone who might have her, Arthur translated. Because if Caerleon – or any other open enemy - had Morgana, they would know, wouldn't they? They'd be taunted with the knowledge of who had her, where she was, and in what conditions she was being kept. Or ransom would be demanded… Unless their enemy meant to avoid war with Camelot, and simply gloat in secret over their loss. Except, it had been almost a full year, and none had made a move to profit from their agitation and distraction.

There were no rejected suitors – so Gwen claimed, and he believed her – to kidnap fair maiden and steal her away to a secret marriage. Gwen also claimed it impossible – he wasn't so sure on this point – that it was impossible that Morgana had left voluntarily. For some reason. Without so much as a cryptic note left behind, or delivered to him, or to Gwen or Gaius.

"You will prepare a troop of men," the king decided, "and ride out at first light to investigate the border with Caerleon, the full length of the Rusk River – deal with any bandits you find, but your first priority is any clue to Morgana's whereabouts and welfare."

Tomorrow. Arthur's aches intensified just thinking of it. No rest for the weary.

"Yes, father," he said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin hoped that Stonedown would be easier than Evorwick. He didn't expect it, though, not with the way his warriors moved and sounded, the night before. Too violent, too eager.

And he couldn't argue with them the way he'd argued with the king, the people aren't our enemies. The villagers aren't fighters.

He wondered, if Pendragon sent his armies to retake the towns, re-establish the borders, or counterstrike past the Rusk River, whether their warriors would line up to meet them in pitched battle like Denaria – or simply fade back over the border and leave Evorwick and Stonedown to be raided again, some other time.

Merlin felt a peculiar sympathy for border towns.

This time, they weren't going in during daylight hours. The plan was a midnight infiltration, subduing villagers one hut at a time – that was his to do, with sleeping spells – so when they woke, they would already be gathered and disarmed and surrounded, the men of fighting age tied, maybe. No running, no screaming, no instinctive attack to defend themselves, he hoped, and they could just listen and accept Merlin's version of his king's orders for the conquest of their village.

The night air was cool to the point of frost, this early in spring, and it made Merlin's breath want to come faster as they crept toward the moonlight-bathed huts, the warriors nearest him no more than a shadow and hint of movement, boots sliding damply through new grass and deep furrows – but the way they were stalking, they probably wouldn't bother the seeding, much.

There was a dog, but it was only fifty paces from Merlin, and he silenced it with a wave of his hand. Perhaps too quickly; its master appeared a moment later – silenced also by the sleeping spell which dropped him bonelessly to the ground. Fine; Merlin would start with that hut, then.

The plan wasn't perfect. He worried about the effects of the spell on five babies he lifted personally from their cradles and swaddlings. And the two obviously expectant women carried wrapped in their blankets to the village center by the warriors with him, deposited carefully among their sleeping neighbors.

Halfway around the haphazard circle of huts, he stumbled, and had to catch a wall with his hand for balance. The dark and the cool of the night wrapped him too snugly, and the stars teased him, dancing close before retreating.

"Sire?" whispered the nearest shadow.

"I'm all right," Merlin answered. "Just… tired."

The warrior huffed. "Past your bedtime, is it?"

"You're lucky I can't tell you all apart, in the dark and by your whisper," Merlin returned. And immediately wished he hadn't revealed that maybe-offensive secret. Something of a failing as a leader, he privately thought.

But the man snickered, and they continued into the next hut.

There was a scare with a chicken coop – then another with a dovecote. And Merlin had not anticipated the necessary use of these spells so often. Three huts left, and he could barely drag one foot in front of the other.

"Dawn's close," his current companion hissed. They'd exchanged duties several times, so the same pair weren't carrying or dragging all the villagers.

Merlin turned to check the horizon for himself. It whirled around him in the opposite direction, tilting too fast for him to catch at the lightest spot on the rim of the earth, and then the stars were down and the ground lifting up under his body.

A shadow cursed. "Damnit, he's down…"

Someone tugged at him for a moment. He tried to answer, to keep his eyes open, but he was too late. And then he was alone.

* * *

 _All the gold that Arthur had won in the tournament less than a month prior could not solve the mystery of the illness that broke out in Camelot, respecting age nor rank nor gender – nor could it save the eighteen citizens that died, pale and lined with blued veins, before the court physician discovered the monster inhabiting the cisterns beneath the city. In times of famine food could be rationed, but when the king's supply of water was tainted, a state of emergency was declared and every soul assigned to discover or aid in the solution. The physician discovered a clue which pointed to a magical origin for the monster – and further research eventually yielded a plan. Prince Arthur led a contingent of knights armed with torches down to the cisterns, while a troop of servants were stationed at several key points with great woven hand-fans to move the air through the fire of the torches sufficiently for the two combined elements to combat the creature of earth and water. Nine of the fighters and five of the servants died before the creature was defeated, and if anyone thought the incident a retaliation for the feast celebrating the Ban several weeks earlier, no one dared venture the opinion aloud._

 _It lacked a fortnight til summer solstice in Arthur's twentieth year, when Camelot held another feast in celebration for the visit of and renewed treaty with King Bayard of Mercia. Lord Geoffrey recorded the gift of a matched pair of engraved goblets from the visiting monarch to his hosts, though there was no need to record the decision to preserve rather than use the generous gift. The pair of silver goblets were admired in their satin-lined cask, then stored safely in the locked treasure vaults beneath the castle. King Uther was, understandably, a bit nervous about what he drank and where he drank from, after the afanc's contagion._

* * *

Merlin opened his eyes to blink at painful noon brilliance – and the side of a thatched roof. He could hear the sounds of Evorwick upset, still, muffled weeping and tense hurried movement, footsteps and the unsettling scrape of sharp metal against other materials.

But… this was Stonedown. He blinked, and the hooded head of one of the veiled warriors thrust itself into his field of vision.

"Sire," he said, mouth hidden and voice muffled. "Hour past noon."

"Stonedown?" Merlin had to try twice before his muscles would coordinate to pull his bones into a sitting position.

"Yes, my lord. Properly subja-gated."

Merlin winced, pressing fingertips to the painful throbbing in his temple. "How many did you kill?"

The voice sounded satisfied. "Seven going on eight."

 _My fault. Damn it._ He longed for darkness and oblivion, blissful ignorance of his sins and failures, but it was not to be. That was not the way a prince faced reality.

"How long til we're ready to leave?" The earth tilted under him, palms and knees, and he was seasick, climbing up to the stiff stilts of his legs.

"Within the hour. Tythan is bringing your horse now."

Merlin nodded, his throat too thick to respond. He kept his eyes down, too cowardly to want the images of this village burned into his brain also, and stumbled behind the nearest hut.

As soon as he was alone, he dropped to his knees and vomited. Again and again, water and sour bile and still he was thoroughly nauseated at the thought of the innocent blood on his hands, smeared there while he'd been weakly, helplessly passed out.

"If that's the price you pay for using magic, I'm glad I have none," Tythan's voice said neutrally. "Your horse, m'lord."

Merlin couldn't meet the eyes of the man who'd trained him for years, coaxed and bullied and listened and reasoned. Reins dangled over his shoulder, tangling over the hilt of his sword still in its sheath, and he grasped at them blindly.

It was a moment before he heard Tythan's footsteps retreating, the faint reverberations in the earth beneath his palms. Part of him was glad the older warrior hadn't tried to console him with words, useless words and meaningless platitudes.

Part of him felt abandoned. Alone.

* * *

 _First Greenswood, then Willowdale. In the early summer of Arthur's twentieth year, a creature with the wings of an eagle and the body of a lion decimated two of Camelot's villages – the second closer to the citadel than the first. Based on the description of one of the survivors – a commoner named Lancelot – it was defined as a griffin. According to legend, it could only be killed with magic – a fact which was proven when the creature attacked the citadel itself. And, as magic was prohibited even in defense – a fact lamented by a certain select few, including the physician, the prince, and the king's ward – eleven knights and guards were killed before the defenders of the kingdom were successful in trapping and caging the beast. Included in the number of dead was the commoner who'd survived the first attack, Lancelot, who'd been admitted to the ranks of the citadel guards only days prior. Camelot mourned a new friend, a good fighter and a courageous man – but he was soon forgotten in the midst of the other ten losses and hero-funerals, and the need to refill ranks._

 _It might also be noted as a matter of interest, that the Lady Morgana habitually declined any and all gifts from suitors, declared or anonymous, anything from flowers to knives. Her reputation as unattainable was therefore preserved – and her safety. Perhaps because she found the men of Camelot inferior to those she'd known in Trevena – though she had been very young when she left her familial home. There were those in the court that found this surprising, as it was generally assumed that the lady would return to the coastal home as its mistress when she married, and Trevena would have a new master. It might also be noted that the wife of the innkeeper of the Rising Sun had an overwhelming horror of insects, a fact which most of the guests of the inn appreciated. It might also be noted that the gate-guards are not quite as blind to would-be assassins as some suppose._

* * *

Merlin's whole body ached when he woke in the frosty pre-dawn. All his muscles were stiff from sleeping the last three nights on still-halfway-frozen ground and his head felt crammed with smoldering wool, from the magic he'd used and used and used. Thick and over-stuffed, his thoughts like uselessly twisting smoke or sudden tongues of insidious flame.

His throat felt swollen and his chest unbearably tight, and neither sensation would ease, not with sleep nor with the tears that seeped and trickled silent in the lonely dark. There was no way to change the past, to fix mistakes, to do things differently.

He could hear his men already up and about, preparing to relieve their bodies and their hunger. Some of them working in a desultory fashion to make their camp more permanent – turning cloaks into tents and forming shelters of cut pine boughs. At least a couple engaged in a fistfight, as he listened apathetically.

Two of them had been sent back to Beckon Cove with the tribute – he wouldn't say plunder like the warriors did – from Stonedown, as from Evorwick. And this half of his original troop – as with Evorwick – would be stationed here, on the road toward Camelot, to prevent any of Pendragon's patrols from taking it back or reporting its conquest, at least for several weeks til the king of Caerleon decided how to proceed in holding his new territory.

"Breakfast, sire," someone said.

There was movement near his foot, and he lifted his head to see one of the warriors just turning away from a hunk of bread and a smaller of cheese atop his cloak-bedroll. It might help, to have someone to talk to, who understood. And he had no one.

Nothing for it. Can't go back, only forward.

Merlin sighed, twisting himself sideways to leave his breakfast for the moment in favor of first pulling his boots onto his feet and lacing them up. Then he buckled his breastplate and settled his sword in its sheath across his back – belt-knife in its protective fold of leather behind his waist – and reached for his bread and cheese.

They were at the edge of a forested valley, looking out at the road winding between two taller hills, bare but for grass and the earliest wildflowers. Merlin watched that last bit of road, wondering whimsically what the rest of Camelot was like. Maybe their knights were honorable, their women independent…

Or maybe they all hated magic as fiercely and illogically as their king.

Merlin blinked, and there was a figure at the far bend of the road, silver and red. He watched for a moment, aware that the sounds his men were making stilled into observant vigilance, watching also as the figure came closer. Slowly and unevenly – limping? – and then the silver was chainmail and the red a scarlet cape.

A knight of Camelot.

"Alone and on foot?" someone near Merlin said, sounding tense and excited.

"He's coming this way," someone else noted.

Merlin rolled to get to his feet, smoothly and soundlessly. They weren't in the open, but it was past dawn and clear. It was only a matter of time… and a knight could not be allowed to discover them, and escape.

He opened his mouth to ask, _did the scouts see anything_ , and remembered. No scouts when they were in camp, only the night-watch, since they weren't on the march anymore.

The figure paused in place, and more than one warrior shifted restlessly, but held position.

 _Only one? And injured?_ Merlin could not think of a reasonable explanation for-

The figure whirled, and began hobbling away in haste that spoke of panic.

"He's seen us!" one of the warriors said urgently.

"We can't let him go," Merlin said. That much was obvious. "But don't-"

Too late. Almost simultaneously, each of his ten remaining warriors cleared their weapons from leather and bolted in pursuit, yelling with barbarian glee.

"Hells," Merlin said vehemently. Maybe he'd underestimated the restlessness they'd been feeling at the anticipation of raiding two villages – then taken without their usual level of violence, no matter that Merlin had wanted and tried to accomplish his mission as peacefully as possible.

They'd take him alive, anyway. Merlin watched his band of warriors pelt down the road after the stray knight – then leaned forward onto his toes, frowning. He was _fast_ for having an injury causing him to limp.

Merlin's hairs crawled up the back of his neck to see the knight disappear around the bend in the road again.

"It's nothing," he told himself, fists clenching at his sides with tension. "It's nothing, they're fine…"

The first and fastest of his warriors disappeared around the bend.

And Merlin spun, dipping down to scoop up his saddle, startling his gelding with the rapidity and roughness with which he positioned and buckled it in place. His mount was dancing back from the lead as he freed it, grabbed a handful of reins and mane and kicked his leg over the saddle even as the gelding shifted into a gallop.

Out of the trees and down the road, wind whistling faintly past his ears, the sword thumping subtly between his shoulder-blades. Around the bend in the road – to see that his warriors had left the well-worn path curving to the right, in order to chase the knight back into a fold in the land to the left.

Maybe he thought to lose them. Maybe it made more sense, taking to rougher terrain than trying to hobble down a leveler road.

Maybe Merlin really didn't like the feeling the situation gave the hairs on the back of his neck. And maybe he was the only one, besides the quarry.

But maybe he was right.

The sound of raised voices rose on the air, out of sight into a ravine between the hills. Then fainter, a twang of bowstrings – none of his ten carried bows – and cries of pain and anger that told him without need for experience, _battle_.

"Hells!" he cursed again, kicking his gelding to a faster pace – off the road, around to the ravine.

They'd been discovered, somehow, and the apparently injured knight was a decoy meant to lure them to an ambush. And it worked because Merlin was a terrible captain and a worse prince, but if he could get there then his magic could make the difference…

Except, it was a melee at the far end of the ravine – indigo and scarlet cloaks mixing as weapons rose and fell and clashed – so he'd have to get close enough to do specific magic. He reached for the hilt of his sword over his shoulder, urging his horse forward though the footing was tricky and the gelding would have to-

Movement at the corner of his eye, on the ridge overlooking the ravine. Merlin turned his head to see a scarlet-clad body hurtling down on him, sunlight igniting his hair. He twisted reactively, but it was only enough to slip his boot from the stirrup so the momentum wouldn't wrench his ankle when-

His attacker slammed into him and they both kept going, off the saddle to the ground, with Merlin underneath.

He blacked out for a second.

And then he couldn't breathe. The air was crushed violently out of his lungs in the fall, and now there was a knee in his spine and a fist in his hair – not quite so long as Caerleon's warriors wore theirs, but long enough to get a solid grip – yanking his head back.

He gasped in a mouthful of dust, squirming to free a hand for his sword-hilt, but there was an arm in the way and a touch of cold steel at his stretching neck.

 _Oh, hells, I'm dead._

Not quite.

"Hold!" his attacker bellowed toward the mixed and desperate fighters.

Merlin tried to concentrate on the spell that heated metal glowing-hot in a single instant, but his head was jerked too far back and he couldn't breathe – and the blade split the skin of his throat. A single wrong twitch away from taking his life – and even his magic couldn't save him, then.

"Hold or I'll spill this one's blood in the dust!"

Merlin couldn't see clearly. The angle of his head was wrong and not breathing was making his thoughts frantic and uncoordinated. But he watched one of the warriors leap out of the brawl, sword extended horizontally, in surrender.

"No! No-no-no-stop! _Please_."

Tythan, it might be. At least he wasn't dead; several of Caerleon's warriors were prone and motionless at the edges of the ravine.

Damn it all to hell. His fault, also.

He blinked and it was apparent – as the fighters paused and drew back – that they were outnumbered. Chills as cold as the steel at his jugular rippled through his contorted body to notice there were other knights of Camelot positioned above them on the ridge. With crossbows, loaded and aimed.

The possibility of self-defense was slim. And this time if his magic wasn't enough – it wouldn't be enough – it would be his men dying, not strangers.

"My life for theirs," he gasped, trying to crane around even further, to address the one who pinned him in place. Who'd ordered the fighting to cease – their captain, maybe. "My life for theirs."

One of the other knights spoke clearly to Tythan, "Who is he to you?"

None of his men answered. The edge of the blade slid lower, clicked against the chain Merlin wore around his neck, tugged out the silver symbol of his rank, warm from resting next to his skin.

"Oh," said the man above him, in a tone of discovery. He shifted, and his knee ground Merlin's backbone against his spinal muscles; Merlin tensed and couldn't swallow a grunt of discomfort. "You're their prince, aren't you. You're Caerleon's heir."

Merlin didn't answer either. Fear of imminent death was draining away to sour disappointment in yet another failure – the enormity of which was just beginning to occur to him – and he resented the other's moment of mercy, illogical as that was.

"If you remain my hostage, your men can go," his captor continued. "Your life and continued wellbeing for their comprehensive and permanent retreat back across the border."

He wondered if that included the men still stationed at Evorwick. But what choice did he have? "I will remain your hostage," he managed on short breaths. "As long as I and my men – are unharmed."

"They will be safe from reprisals as long as they leave Camelot's lands," the man warned. "Your cooperation ensures your safety."

Knowing that he'd pay the price for their disobedience of conditions – yeah, probably his men would return to report to Beckon Cove. Maybe even taking the ten at Evorwick, also. And the thought of the various reactions to this news – and the abandonment of both villages he was supposed to have secured – kept Merlin's flushed face down in the grass and dust, even as his attacker's weight lifted off him and he stepped back.

"Drop your weapons," the knight commanded, and Merlin hated the arrogance in his tone. Hated the fact of his defeat at the other's victory, though it spared his life – worthless life, maybe, a failure as the heir of his king.

"Who are you, then, that you can assure us of our prince's protection in your custody?" Tythan spoke up boldly.

Merlin twisted just enough to squint upward over his shoulder at the knight – golden-haired, confident and triumphant – and hated the sideways smirk on his face.

"I'm the prince of Camelot," he said. "Arthur Pendragon."

 **A/N: Thanks very much for your wonderful responses to the first chapter! I sincerely hope you weren't expecting a kid!fic, because that isn't what this is, in spite of planned sections of past scenes. This one is a little longer than usual (though no one minds that, ever) because I did promise Arthur &Merlin… Hope you all found it a satisfying first meeting! Next chapter, Arthur's pov…**


	3. Spur of the Moment

**Chapter 3: Spur of the Moment**

Arthur was starting to feel a faint regret for the string of choices he'd made on the spur of the moment, seeing a rider follow the border bandits into the ravine.

It was not the plan for him to leap down into the ravine in aid and defense of Sir Iaelian. Sir Leon, ever the spokesperson, had politely requested that he, as crown prince, keep to the top of the ridge with the other bowmen, in the event that their ruse to draw out and ambush the camp of bandits succeeded.

But they weren't bandits. And if his impulse hadn't worked, these few barbarian warriors might well have fought to make his men kill them, before any questions could be asked.

And now… Arthur glanced sideways at the youngest warrior – youngest by at least a decade – positioned at his side. His hands were bound, more symbolism than actual restraint – in front of him, eyes turned down and lost in thought, as Sir Leon and the others supervised the disarming of the four surviving warriors of Caerleon.

The prince moved his hands against the twine binding his wrists almost absently - more hindered than harmed, with vambraces to protect his skin – and not as if he were surreptitiously trying to slip free, before running. Considering, maybe, how far his agreement to surrender bound him as he tested the physical bonds. It would be interesting to see how long he'd cooperate.

Physically, he didn't seem like he belonged with the other warriors. They were muscled, hairy, and sullen – he was slender, smooth-shaven, and met Arthur's eyes evenly and confidently. Blue eyes, which also seemed uncommon for the barrbarians, though his hair was dark and tangled like theirs, it ended at his eyebrows, and barely covered ears and neck.

As if he felt the weight of Arthur's regard, he looked up and Arthur found himself the least bit flustered to meet his eyes. He'd never before met his equal among Camelot's enemies; Odin had only declared hostilities after the unfortunate challenge-match.

So Arthur blurted the first thing that came to his mind, an arrogant and aggressive, "I didn't hurt you when I tackled you off your horse, did I?" Because he himself was not without sore spots and bruises, now.

The younger prince sneered and retorted, "I didn't hurt you when I landed underneath you on the ground, did I?"

Taken aback momentarily, Arthur answered reflexively, "No."

"Well, damn," the prince responded in mock disappointment, turning his eyes back to his men, grumbling and reluctantly adding hidden weapons to the confiscated pile.

Arthur made a mental note for the near future, when the released warriors were well away, and the hostage more firmly in their grasp than simply twine around his wrists. He said curiously, "Have you got a name?"

The prince snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yes," he drawled, "Even barbarians name their children."

"What's yours?" Arthur's question was ignored; he wasn't surprised, but on the whole, he wasn't disappointed with or wary of his new inadvertent companion. Yet. "I don't think I knew that your king and queen had children."

"Whereas your notoriety precedes you," the prince snapped. And at Arthur's raised eyebrow, muttered a quick and insincere, "Sorry… Um. I'm adopted."

Surprised, Arthur shifted his weight and studied the other more openly – a fact which didn't escape his attention.

"I know, you can't quite put your finger on why Caerleon's king and queen would choose someone like me," the prince goaded.

Arthur smirked. Maybe he didn't look the part of a barbarian warrior, but he had the Caerleon attitude. "I'm beginning to get an inkling."

But it seemed that the four remaining invaders were thoroughly divested of their weaponry, and being herded toward – past – Arthur and the other prince, on their way out of the ravine. The prince straightened, his hands stilling, his eyes on his men.

The first one slouched past, barely bothering to lift his turbaned head to show his face between eyes and beard. He muttered, quietly but piercingly, "Why didn't you _use_ it?"

Beside Arthur, the prince stiffened as if stabbed by the query. Arthur glanced at his counterpart's sword, bared in his hand, balanced point-down against the earth, confiscated itself from the sheath across the younger man's back. But surely the warrior could have guessed his prince hadn't had the time to draw the weapon?

The man muttered something further, more incoherent, which Arthur was startled to suspect included the word _coward_.

The next warrior – head wrapped in indigo cloth, but face bare – immediately shoved the first one, telling him, "Shut up," before facing his prince. To Arthur's surprise, the man reached his hand around the back of the prince's neck in a fond if rough embrace. "Take care of yourself," the warrior told the younger man, who nodded wordlessly. "Don't you spare a minute worrying about us, you look out for you, understand? I'll have a word with your mother – and your sweetheart. And we'll see you again before too long, yeah?"

Under other circumstances, Arthur might have been amused to notice the other prince pale at the mention of the first female, then flush at the mention of the second. As it was, he almost winced, to discover that his young hostage had a mother who would worry for her son, and a girl waiting who would miss her lover. And both of those feminine ideals struck a chord with Arthur – what this young prince had, and he didn't.

"Tell Her Majesty…" He had to clear his throat, and cast Arthur a self-conscious glare, though he hadn't said anything, before beginning again. "Tell Their Majesties I won't let them down."

"Yes, m'lord," the man responded. "Chin up. The king'll ransom you."

A smile was forced onto the prince's lips. "Of course he will."

And neither of them believed it. Curious, Arthur thought, and wondered if both expected his own father to set the prince too high.

The other two warriors passed without more than a sidelong glance and a mumbled, "M'lord." The prince watched them tramp sullenly down the ravine, escorted by several of Arthur's knights, and the arrogant confidence in his posture sighed quietly away to slumped shoulders and desolate distance in his eyes, a semi-conscious fidgeting at his bonds.

Til he noticed Arthur's eyes on him. Then his shoulders were back and his chin tipped at a sardonic angle and his eyes flashing defiance.

And because the highest-ranking _bandit_ was now alone, Arthur focused on his father's top priority. "Where is the Lady Morgana?" he demanded.

The prince blinked twice, as if those words took longer to understand, somehow, then he frowned and cocked his head like he was waiting for Arthur to elaborate or explain. He didn't fidget or twitch his eyes away from Arthur's glare, and Arthur was almost completely convinced his hostage had no idea what he was talking about. "I… beg your pardon, who?"

"You heard me. Lady Morgana. Where is she?"

Confusion so close to genuine as to make no difference twisted the prince's narrow face. "Did she live in Evorwick or Stonedown? I wasn't aware there was any nobility in either of those villages."

"You'd notice her," Arthur said, not answering the question, trying another angle. "About so tall –" he flattened his palm in the air to approximate her height – "bright green eyes, pale smooth skin, long black curly hair, impetuous and outspoken…"

The prince's lips twitched. "If I'd met someone like her, it sounds like I'd remember."

Arthur wanted to press further, suggest that Morgana's hair might have been cut or hidden, but if he hadn't yet provoked the curiosity of his enemy-equal, that surely would. So he mentally shifted out of the brief interrogation, confident that Caerleon had nothing to do with Morgana's disappearance, or continued absence.

"Our camp is behind that hill," Arthur informed the younger man, pointing with the hilt of the prince's own sword. Blaec and Carles stopped at a respectful distance, awaiting his orders. "I'll remind you that your cooperation ensures your safety. However, I will have to require you to disarm yourself as well – all weapons, and all armor."

The prince jutted his chin stubbornly, frowning. "Not until I'm sure that you're going to honor our dead appropriately."

Arthur paused in reaching to untie his hands, careful not to give the other a chance to snatch his sword back, and glanced over the prince's shoulder to the fallen. "Of course," he said, respecting the insistence. He'd seen blood on Sir Iaelian's arm, but no signs of crippling pain or disability, and that was the extent of the injuries on their side. "Once your men are sufficiently away, their escort will return here to see to burying your dead properly and respectfully, you have my word."

The younger man hesitated, his eyes narrowed. So he didn't trust Arthur's word – well, they didn't know each other. Arthur wasn't offended; he only waited, holding the other's sharp blue gaze, and finally the prince extended his bound wrists as a sort of concession to Arthur's assertion.

"Your things will be kept set apart," Arthur added, neutrally respectful, "to return to you, in the event your freedom is negotiated."

The prince glanced at Blaec and Carles, then upward to where Munt and Stanbeorg waited on the ridge – quite possibly with their crossbows trained on the hostage; Arthur didn't bother checking. With a growl of dissatisfied acquiescence, the younger man dropped his chin to focus on the lacings of his breastplate, under his right arm.

At a look from Arthur, Blaec stepped forward to receive it, but the prince looked him straight in the face and flung the armor to the ground, followed quickly by the vambraces – and the belt over his indigo tunic, which evidently had a knife-sheath sewn into the back of it. The silver crescent-moon-and-stars which proclaimed him Caerleon's heir swung free and thudded on his ribs as he stumbled in removing his boots; both Arthur and Blaec offered a hand for his balance, which he ignored – and Arthur found the independent attitude oddly appealing.

Then he stood in his socks in the dirt and pebbles, tunic loose around his narrow hips and his arms crossed over his chest, and let Blaec and Carles discover the two long narrow daggers hidden in the boots. And his height wasn't entirely due to the soles, and he didn't seem the least bit intimidated to stand so vulnerable in the middle of his enemies. Arthur hoped that was because he trusted their honor – but honestly it was probably too soon for that.

"Is that everything?" Arthur asked his knights.

Blaec set the boots down – away from the armor, as the prince would be allowed to wear them, emptied of weapons – while Carles ran his hands dispassionately over their captive's lean body, looking for any blade-sheaths hidden by tunic and trousers. The prince sneered at the need but didn't actively resist; then Carles retied his hands in front of him, and stepped back with a nod to Arthur.

"Not quite, sire," said Sir Leon, behind Arthur. He spoke mildly enough, but Arthur was the most familiar with him, out of the troop, and caught a hint of subtle warning.

He turned to see that Leon had been going through the saddlebags and attachments on the prince's dun gelding – returned for his use also, once it had been searched for any hidden threat. There was a book in Leon's hands, the cover a wine-hued leather that looked fairly new. Embossed symbols that Arthur could not make out from five paces away – and as the knight flipped it open, Caerleon's prince inhaled swiftly through his nostrils.

Significant, then. Arthur shifted to keep the hostage in the corner of his eye, just in case, and imitated Leon's tone to ask, "What is it?"

Leon let another dozen pages turn past his thumb, and Arthur caught the suggestion of illustrations in addition to text. Then the knight looked up – past Arthur, at the younger prince.

"A spell-book, sire."

Icicles shot up either side of Arthur's spine, thin and sharp. _Magic_.

"That's not mine," the prince said. Too quickly.

Arthur faced him, narrowing his eyes. "Your horse," he reminded him. "Your saddlebags."

"Leisure reading for the trip," the prince responded immediately. "The heir to the throne should be well-educated in a variety of subjects, don't you agree, Your Highness?"

Arthur refused to be diverted with sarcasm. He wanted to stalk close and grab two fistfuls of indigo tunic and stare the truth out of those impudent blue eyes – but magic was treacherously dangerous. Blaec and Carles were leaning like they wanted to take several steps, retreating from proximity to an accused sorcerer.

"Is it your book," Arthur said quietly. "Do you have magic?"

Desperation flashed across the younger prince's face, followed by resolve, but he never looked away from Arthur's gaze. His eyes never burned with the corruptive influence of performed magic.

He said calmly, "Yes."

Blaec and Carles did flinch back, then, and one of them hissed an expletive.

But Arthur had faced magic before. It was fast and deadly and hair-raising and nearly impossible to defend against, the only possible recourse was to overwhelm and subdue with superior numbers – and even then, the losses were steep. He stood still and tensed for _danger-pain-death_ and watched Caerleon's prince for an explosion of fire or a battering ram of wind or a curse of immediate poison, or… something.

Caerleon's prince did nothing, except watch Arthur for his reaction. _Why didn't_ _you use it?_ wasn't referring to the prince's _sword_. He hadn't used his magic against Arthur or the knights… he still didn't.

Interesting. As if he still considered Arthur in charge of the situation. Then maybe… he wasn't capable of such magic? Not strong enough to escape, or even to defend himself when Arthur… He shuddered slightly, thinking of how he'd tackled a sorcerer off his horse.

"You said," the prince's voice was even, though he was anything but relaxed, "that my cooperation guaranteed my safety."

With the lilt of a question. Was this him cooperating, then? Feeling the moment surreal, Arthur said, "I gave you my word."

"The word of a Pendragon," the prince said, mildly sardonic and keen-eyed. "We'll see how much that's worth."

Arthur snorted, and gestured at him. "And how Caerleon defines cooperation."

A wide wolfish grin cracked the hostage's face unexpectedly – it made the other prince look disconcertingly _young_.

"Sire?" Leon murmured. "A word?"

Arthur considered. He thought he knew what Leon wanted to discuss – and appreciated a sound and second viewpoint of the dilemma. But they shouldn't just keep standing there; he didn't think the younger royal was going to break and _run_ anytime soon, so he and Leon could talk as they walked. Strike camp and put a couple of leagues behind them today, though they wouldn't reach the citadel by nightfall.

"Blaec, take the prince's things," he said. "Carles, you have first shift of guard duty. Your Highness, your boots – we'll walk for now, but you'll have your horse when we're ready to ride, also."

"My thanks," the prince said, making gratitude - and the little bow he made – disrespectful, somehow.

Maybe he was waiting til their backs were turned. So Arthur made sure not to turn his back, keeping the prince in sight as he seated himself and awkwardly donned and laced his boots with bound hands. Leon handed the spell-book to Arthur, who tucked it gingerly under his elbow; who knew if the thing had enchantments on it to prevent it falling into the wrong hands?

And after an insolently enquiring gesture – _You first? Fine, I'll lead_ – he and Leon, guiding the dun gelding, fell in behind the other prince and the two knights. Arthur glanced up to signal the bowmen to meet them at camp, receiving nods before they retreated from the ridge and from sight.

"Well, Leon?" Arthur said mildly, letting enough distance stretch between them and the captive for privacy.

"You gave your word before we knew he was a sorcerer," Leon observed. "I don't believe your father would consider that binding."

An accurate assessment. But Leon had probably guessed quite a while ago that he and his father did not agree when it came to the crimes and criminals of magic.

"I repeated the assurance of safety after we learned of his magic," he reminded Leon. "And _I_ consider it binding."

Walking past the road to head around the hill toward their camp, Leon inclined his head in respect for the reaffirmation of Arthur's decision. He would take it as his own, too; Arthur knew Leon was one of the few who'd obey his orders over the king's, were they ever to conflict, and he took care not to place his faithful knight in that position.

"We have seen no proof of magic," Leon offered next. "Perhaps it is too weak or small for battle situations. I cannot imagine that he planned on being caught, for the purpose of being brought to the citadel to further some more sinister plan."

"No," Arthur agreed, thinking back over what the hostage had said, verbally and physically. But he wasn't convinced that Caerleon's word would hold beyond the day and the night, at whatever point he considered his men safe and his own escape reasonably sure. "We'll watch him well, Leon, and he won't be the first magic-user Camelot has held."

Leon made a thoughtful noise; he too remembered the raving and shrieking and self-destruction of various scenes throughout their shared childhood – attacks, trials, executions.

"My father can be persuaded of the prince's worth as a hostage," he added.

Leon's, "Yes, my lord," reminded him of the other prince's agreement to his warrior's suggestion of ransom. Expressing a sentiment he didn't _believe_.

"What if," he began delicately, "we burn the book, and warn Caerleon, no magic. Perhaps if the fact is irrelevant, we won't have to mention…"

Beneath his beard, Leon grimaced; glancing at Arthur, he gestured ahead of them at Blaec and Carles. Arthur sighed, dropping his eyes to watch his footing over the rough forested floor. The bowmen would have reached camp before them, and Munt had enough sense to get them busy packing; it wouldn't be long til they were on their way.

But he couldn't expect Blaec or Carles to keep quiet on the subject of the hostage's magic. Which meant he was going to have to address it with his father in such a way that whatever threat Uther might believe posed, would be minimal in comparison to the advantage of keeping Caerleon's prince a guest by force.

It occurred to him, watching his hostage's head come up to study the camp and their mounts, the few knights moving about the site in anticipation of their departure, that it might not be all bad if the prince did escape…

Except, he would return to his king and probably gather more troops and this time take more than just already-frightened Evorwick and Stonedown. Sir Oandel was leading the troop sent to retake Evorwick; Arthur didn't imagine the knight would have more trouble than he, and he didn't mind if Oandel's company returned to Camelot sooner.

Perhaps news of the first victory would sweeten Uther's temper, before he learned that his son had inadvertently captured a sorcerer they could not afford to execute under their own laws, or to set free.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Tythan eyed the gangly sprout of a boy, and because the king was across the training circle from him, instead of standing right next, allowed himself a longsuffering sigh.

"One – two – harder, boy, harder, put some muscle into it! Give me a ten-two-six… Agghhh!"

Six years ago, when the boy and his mother had arrived in Beckon Cove, in the queen's carriage, he had paid very little attention. That this was to be his king, affected Tythan not at all. Thurston was comparatively young and belligerently vigorous; no one worried about losing him anytime soon. His first impression of the boy was a silent, watchful shadow behind his mother, crossing the bailey as close to her skirts as he could stay.

The second was of a surprisingly talkative shadow, twice when Tythan had come around a corner before the shy young heir noticed his presence. And perhaps some members of the nobility who had sons they hoped would be chosen to succeed the childless king, were irritated and offended at the arrival of the peasant-born nobody, but by and large the warriors cared little, one way or the other. They'd take notice when he grew tall enough to wield a sword, and then their regard would be sharp.

" _Not_ like that! _Lock_ your wrist in anticipation of the parry, and _loosen_ it for the spin!"

Tythan almost winced as the boy winced, when the king lost patience with his clumsy attempt at the third form. No one would coddle him on the battlefield, though both of them ignored the prince hastily jabbing the corner of his bony wrist into his eyes. Tythan said nothing, and the king self-consciously modified his tone.

"Come on, boy, try again – you'll get it right the next time."

He remembered the first time he'd seen little Prince Merlin up close.

The girl's name was Hunith, they'd discovered from the baker's daughter. She was her son's caretaker yet – nanny and maidservant at once, and so she carried her laundry and the boy's, in a basket under her arm. Slender and quick and possibly pretty, was the speculation – she was as shy as the boy but maybe that came from being strangers in Caerleon.

Curiosity and an awkward friendliness-with-potential had prompted him scoop up the unidentified garment or cloth that had fallen from the basket that day, and hurry to catch up.

"Miss! 'Scuse me, miss?"

She'd turned, caught in the corner between the barracks and the steps to the palace-tower, nervous and double-shadowed, a pair of bright blue eyes peeking at Tythan under her elbow. She might have been pretty, he allowed, had her hair been loose. And maybe curly or braided, and maybe if she smiled-

"No," she said to him. Firmly, though her eyes seemed skittish of his gaze.

"Beg pardon?" he said blankly.

"I spoke my vow to Merlin's father," she added quickly, with a tremble in her voice. "And maybe he's dead – but maybe he's not and if he's not then I'm married to him, and until I'm convinced he's dead, I'm determined to be faithful to my vow."

The skin of his face stretched as his eyebrows climbed, with surprised respect.

"So," she concluded, with a flicker of eye connection, "I'm not interested in any sort of… courtship. And you can tell all of your…" she flapped her free hand to express the word that escaped her, "companions, the same thing, if you would be so kind. I'm not interested in repeating _no thanks_."

"Ah," he said lamely. "Honestly, I just meant to… You dropped…" He held out the unidentified bit of material that had fallen from her basket. She snatched it, going scarlet with an embarrassment that Tythan regretted. "But it was also an excuse for me to talk to you," he floundered. "We wondered if you were a widow, or…" He hadn't thought any further ahead than introductions and a closer look at a possibly pretty face; and if he could get her to smile, then maybe tomorrow he'd look for another opportunity to make her smile at him again.

"I apologize," she said as she took the cloth from his hand, faintly distressed and definitely not meeting his eyes anymore, "if I misunderstood your kindness."

He was aware of the steady curiosity of that all-but-hidden pair of blue eyes. "Not at all," he said gamely. "Now we know. And I'll see to it that you're not bothered with… unwanted attention." It occurred to him for the first time that other men might possibly think to woo the mother of the heir in their own self-interest, someday to wield influence.

"Thank you," she said, and the delicate set of her shoulders relaxed in something like relief. She swayed, addressing her shadow, "Now I've got to wash this again, I guess…"

A pale slender hand shot out, and Tythan was relieved himself to see that the garment was an innocuous sort of towel, as the boy spread it out in the air to show a smudge of dirt from the ground where it had fallen. The new little prince shook it once, wordlessly, and the dark smear rippled out, leaving it clean.

And the boy had absolutely beamed, to present it to his mother good as new.

Tythan's eyebrows had stretched up, again. At that age, magic so specific and so successful and without a word…

"Only for emergencies, I said," Hunith scolded the boy fondly. His eyes danced and his dimples remained and she surrendered. "But thank you, too."

"Good day," Tythan said. "It was nice to meet you, Mistress Hunith. And you, Your Highness."

The girl had blushed again, maybe still unused to her son's new title. And the blue eyes had disappeared into the shadow of his mother again, behind her laundry basket all the way up the stairs to the palace-tower.

In the moment Tythan took to amuse himself with the memory, the king had stalked the perimeter of the trodden circle where the heir trained, separate from the warriors' exercises going on behind them.

"Stance five, and hold," the king ordered.

The boy swung awkwardly into an approximation of the position. The blunted practice sword trembled in his grip – hands suitably large, fingers long and strong, but his wrists in those vambraces looked like twigs. Sweat trickled, and he swallowed noticeably, but Tythan knew the prince would hold the position as commanded til he passed out from exhaustion.

The king stopped, sideways to his heir, facing Tythan but keeping the rest of the field in the corner of his other eye. "What do you think?" he muttered. "It's been a year already, dammit."

A year in which the boy had gained three inches – and probably lost three pounds.

"He can lift the steel, now," Tythan answered in the same low tone. They'd had to regress to clumsy juvenile wooden weapons after the first week of false starts and falls, and he defended their long year's progress. "He's better than he was, sire."

The king growled with dissatisfaction, and Tythan wanted to argue, he was doing the best he could with what he had to work with. The boy was doing the best he could, with what he had to work with.

"Three!" the king barked suddenly, and the prince twitched, trying to rotate his weapon to the higher zone. "No, spin between those two, it's far more effective…"

The boy tried to obey, and almost lost his grip on his weapon. The tremor in the length of the blade was far more evident, the determination resembling agony in his eyes. He _knew_ what he was doing; he was learning it, he just had trouble _doing_ it.

"He's stubborn, at least, I'll give him that," the king grumbled.

Tythan agreed with an appreciative grunt, and watched passively as his sovereign barked out enough instructions to step the prince through the very basic forms.

"Bah," the king said suddenly, drawing his own sword and bringing it down in a deadly arc toward the prince's face.

That made Tythan wince sympathetically – maybe the boy didn't know yet, to his bones, that he need never fear injury at his king's hands, not deliberate and not accidental – but the prince managed to insert his blade between the king's weapon and his face. Momentarily, before Thurston shoved, and the boy tumbled to the ground, fumbling to avoid being completely disarmed.

"Get up. Knock this sword from my hand and you're done for the day. Go."

The prince darted a glance at Tythan, who nodded corroboration. Took his eyes off his opponent in trying to roll to his feet – the king corrected the mistake with a boot to his heir's backside, sending him tumbling again – but scrambling up more warily.

"Go. _Go_!"

The prince swung, and swung again, and Tythan was gratified to see he wasn't attacking recklessly or mindlessly, he was using the second form, for when an enemy was taller or bigger or stronger – he was just slow, and predictable, and terribly under-strength.

"Come on, _again_!" the king shouted disparagingly. "I'm an old man, boy, surely you've got more than _that_ in you!"

That was part of training, too. Tythan's own father had said far worse to him in his teenage years, goading him to lose both temper and focus. Pointing out weakness in offense or defense, loudly and sarcastically because a humiliating lesson is learned only once. Memorized, and never forgotten. And then an enemy's taunts could be laughed at as foolish and banal in comparison. And the thrill of being in a position to issue one's own jibes – well, that was memorable, too.

"Try again!"

Inexplicably, the prince retreated a step, lifting his sword to a duel-ready mark. Tythan caught a spark from his eyes – gold, and magic – and the king hissed in surprise, having to snatch his weapon back into his hand as he fumbled.

For a moment they both froze. The prince's crouched posture was due more to instinct than instruction, and his eyes were wide in alarm; the king's expression was hidden to Tythan behind him.

"That's one way of doing it," the king said finally, straightening and letting his blade drop – though the prince didn't immediately mirror his action, and still looked like he'd spooked himself most of all, and maybe expected punishment of some sort. "Go put that away and clean yourself up, you know Annis likes you washed before dinner."

Silent, a traitor tear or two stealing down pale cheeks, the prince drew himself up – those three inches had put him over five feet, now – and bowed. The king, predictably, snarled and swung his sword to knock the boy out of obeisance, and the prince ducked smoothly. He was better at the defensive moves, Tythan had observed.

"And none of that. You save that for the fancy royals of Albion, you hear? Always look me in the eye, boy, so I can see what you're thinking."

A moment of subtle struggle, but the prince managed to lift his eyes to meet the king's. "If I may – be excused?"

The slight catch of his breath betrayed how close his emotion was to the controlled surface, and Tythan was nearly proud of him. Probably he'd come to their session tomorrow with dents and scuffs from having thrown things across his room. Good.

"Go on," the king growled.

Tythan stepped up beside him as they both watched the boy march away – stumbling and nearly tripping as he tried to sheathe and carry the practice sword at his hip.

"His weapon is as long as he is, and weighs half as much," Tythan quipped, as much to gauge his king's mood, as to excuse his charge's shortcomings.

"He's already years behind," the king complained gruffly, watching the awkward figure cross the bailey toward the hill and the tower. "You were twelve when your father handed you your first real sword? I was ten."

Tythan made a noise of agreement and remembrance. And he'd never felt any particular urge toward fatherhood himself, but now he was saddled with the crown prince's training. Why me? he sometimes wondered, with casual and passing interest. Too bad for Geart's loss at Denaria; he'd been the one expected to train the heir.

"He has made progress," Tythan repeated, to be fair. Because maybe kings were harder on their heirs when it came to expectations – it made sense to Tythan that it would be so. "Maybe slow at first, and then he'll catch on and astound us all."

The king grunted in discontent, and Tythan understood. Thurston wasn't one for nebulous hope. He wanted action and immediate results.

"I'll try to draw him out a little more," he proposed. "Maybe get him to holler and scream at me." Then, to begin with, he'd know exactly what the prince was thinking, if he was too angry or frustrated to bite his tongue. "Express a bit of passion – so he can then _use_ it to fight with."

"Hm. Be careful doing that." The king twisted to mark Tythan with one dark keen eye. "You saw that, just now, the magic. If we can get that out of him, in a controlled and directed way…"

"I thought that was contrary to his other lessons," Tythan checked.

"That druid. Should never have let Annis talk me into a druid. All about controlling emotion and _respond instead of react_ , whatever the hell that means. No magic in battle, except for defense – and what the hell kind of warrior holds back to defend, only?"

Tythan snorted his derision of the idea, too. "Well, at least you know he'll not allow himself to be killed, or seriously harmed, facing a true enemy."

"I suppose," the king muttered, still dissatisfied. "I'm going to have a talk with Alator again, see if I can't redefine his principles a little closer to what I want for the boy's skills as a warrior."

Already stubborn and proud and an extremely hard worker – his attempts to follow instruction always genuine and full-hearted, never grudging or perfunctory. Never sullen, even if he was quiet; on the whole, Tythan thought it could be a lot worse, and would never complain about his charge. He offered quietly, "He'll make you proud, sire."

"Huh…" The king mused, "Someday…"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Annis didn't often seek out her husband when he was on the training field, anymore, she was not an eager-eyed bride any longer. But, neither did her husband often seek to vent frustration alone with a target, than in match after match of single – or double, or triple – combat sparring with his men.

So as he selected and hurled a gathered assortment of hand weapons, with one surly grunt after another, Annis took a position three paces from him, facing the other direction, with a longbow in hand and a quiver of arrows across her back. And selected her words as carefully as her feathered shafts.

"We did the right thing, didn't we?" She raised, drew string to aim, and loosed the arrow to sing and thud into the ring next to the center. Hm. Bit out of practice. "Sending him."

He growled in dissatisfaction, though she knew it wasn't with herself or their choice of heir. On occasion he'd expressed such regard for the boy's magic, she was reassured that he wasn't at all worried for their kingdom, for the time when he was past worrying about anything. It was the boy's temperament and marked disinclination for violence that baffled him, especially when he himself was nearing the age when he had more opportunity for regret than significant action, himself.

Annis understood that, though she felt the opposite. She was proud to watch Merlin – grown tall and leanly muscled – cross swords with men who were older, tougher, stronger, meaner, and win even without magic. And keep his temper and outthink his opponent – not for the glory of triumph, but for the satisfaction of ending the combat. Merlin's whole being was focused on achieving and maintaining peace rather than enjoying the conflict, and with the sort of magic she'd seen him use, she privately thought it a very good thing that he was neither greedy nor ambitious. She didn't want him to change, though his consistent striving to please her husband gave her a pang of pride and sympathetic pain under her ribcage.

"It had to be done," he growled, picking up a morning star and flipping it once before throwing it at his target with another grunt of effort; it thudded heavily and stuck in the scarred wood. "He's years past the age when I led my first raid."

"But he's so sweet and innocent," she mourned deliberately. "Do you really think it was wise picking _those_ warriors to accompany him?"

Also something they'd discussed obliquely, prior to deciding upon the raids. Thurston could rate each of his warriors' attitudes toward his heir, ranging from Tythan who'd defend him to the death at the blink of an eye, to those who might still harbor resentment for Merlin's position and privilege or disdain for his actual abilities as a swordsman or sorcerer or leader. Thurston had selected more warriors from the negative end of the range than from among those who approved of their prince more or less wholeheartedly, on purpose. A prince's first raid shouldn't be _easy_ , in any detail. How could he learn to lead except by doing, and with the ones least likely to accommodate his mistakes?

"I picked some of my best," he grumbled. "You know that."

She did. And so far it had succeeded; yesterday they'd received two messengers, with a wagon from Evorwick and a donkey-cart from Stonedown. The contents wouldn't have fed or supplied Beckon Cove for a week, but it was the first bright flush of success. Except for how Hunith and the cat-girl Freya looked at each other, and for how Thurston had simmered after a private interrogation with the warriors who'd accompanied the loot back to Caerleon.

"Do you really think he'll be able to keep those two villages?" she went on, speaking slowly as if half her attention was on her next shot. She loosed the arrow; it struck nearer the center circle than before.

" _Take_ ," he grunted. "Could have stripped the villages and brought back useful workers and dispatched the rest, and have done. But no. Your boy had to leave them in place and now we've got to figure how to draw and hold a new border." Thurston licked his thumb and ran it along one of the edges of a three-bladed spear-head. "You're becoming an old woman, Annis. You've coddled him too much. Sweet and innocent." He sneered and flipped the weapon toward the target, slicing into the wood just between the morning star and the hilt of a dagger. "Having made hard choices is different than thinking about having to make them. He'll be better for this. Stronger. Harder."

"What makes you say that?" Annis demanded, considering that she'd gotten him started talking, he'd probably keep going.

"Because the magic he used wasn't-"

Thurston cut himself off; Annis loosed her nocked arrow before turning to see one of the warriors jogging across the yard to join them. Too bold for the circumstances, but because his face was uncovered, she identified him and his reason for interrupting his sovereigns several long moments before he reached them.

Tythan. Who wouldn't leave or be sent from Merlin's side. And who wouldn't report in his place if Merlin had returned reasonably unharmed.

Annis felt the uncertainty of her boy's absence like a stab in the gut. She missed him – curious blue eyes, sweet mischievous smile, gangly loping stride. The way he still folded himself onto her footstool to talk, the way he'd done for lessons in history and politics as a child.

"Is he dead?" she demanded, lifting her voice to address Tythan over whatever Thurston had been going to say.

"No, ma'am," Tythan answered, using a bit more courtesy than was normal for them in Beckon Cove. "Captured."

Annis breathed again, and hadn't realized she stopped.

"Captured?" the king spat. "How? And by whom, farmers?"

"A patrol of Camelot knights," Tythan said. His demeanor wasn't tense, but his eyes were; Annis knew he'd always cared almost as much for his prince as they did, which made him the perfect trainer to push and provoke the shy boy into becoming a leader.

"Bah!" Thurston said.

"Led by Prince Arthur Pendragon," Tythan added.

Annis watched that make a difference to the thoughts behind Thurston's eyes, and thought herself back to the few days they'd spent in Camelot before meeting Merlin, and the courteous, well-built little golden-haired boy. She wondered if he was quite like his father, by now. Which would be a pity.

"The younger Pendragon, hm? Merlin can get away from him," the king stated.

 _Yes, but will he._

Tythan seemed to hear her thought. "I'm not certain he will," the warrior admitted. "He agreed to remain hostage if Pendragon would allow us to return free across the border."

"Remain!" Thurston spun to stalk a few paces away, muttering to himself. "How long does he think…"

Annis turned to Tythan. "When did all this happen?"

"Early this morning. We ran all the way here – well, almost – to tell you." He looked exhausted, too, trembling and baggy-eyed.

She consulted her inner map. "That means they'll have to make camp tonight, and reach their citadel tomorrow."

"Then he'll still have time to change his mind and make his escape," Tythan offered, as the king turned on his heel again and stomped back toward them.

Annis privately doubted it. Merlin's pride was quiet, but there – he wouldn't return to his king stripped and empty-handed, worse off than when he left, and humiliated where he should have been triumphant. "So Camelot has Merlin," she said to her husband. "What will they do? What will he do?"

"What can we do?" Tythan added quietly. "I told him you could ransom him…"

Thurston glared at the warrior, and Annis grimaced. No, of course that was going to be a very last resort, paying out coin to a man they both hated for his selfishness and hypocrisy – a man that they'd essentially tried to rob via his captive.

"Will they even ask for a ransom," she said quietly to her husband.

He ground his teeth a moment. "They'll have to. They can't just keep him, or think to control us through him, I won't allow that. But a great deal may depend on if they know he has magic…"

Tythan slumped minutely, losing a shade of color. "He won't tell them. If he used it during the skirmish, I didn't see it."

Annis shook her head, feeling an uncomfortable lump of doubt roll sluggishly in her stomach. "He's never had to hide it. Did he take one of his books with him?"

Her answer was there in the warrior's eyes, and she could well imagine it herself – the slender thoughtful prince curling up by the fire at night in the middle of a camp of rough warriors, burying his mind in the pages of his magic.

"Maybe they won't find it?"

"They'll find it," Thurston growled. "But… they _can't_ execute him."

Tythan looked like he wasn't completely sure, but Annis was as confident as her husband. Even if it would be assassination to kill a magic-user who was also a foreign royal, and even if Uther would connive or stoop to that, she didn't believe such an attempt could succeed; Merlin was too alert and too powerful.

"The younger Pendragon," she said to Tythan. "He seemed decent? Honorable?"

The king sneered something disparagingly under his breath that sounded like _honor_ and _Pendragon_ , but she ignored it.

Tythan grimaced. "Maybe? On such short acquaintance, though, I wouldn't stake my life."

Awkward silence as they all remembered Merlin's life might be staked on it.

"Perhaps if they try anything," Thurston said slowly, "his defense might be… considerable. If he's forced to escape as his only option, and they try to stop him…"

Annis kept her sigh internal, knowing he was likely expending some wrath and frustration, mentally picturing the damage he'd like to commit in escaping Camelot's citadel. Even though he'd brooded for years over the fact that Merlin was _different_.

"Unless he returns to us himself," she said slowly, "it's up to Uther to make the first move."

"And in the meantime?" Tythan ventured. "We have the tenth part from Evorwick and Stonedown – but no warriors east of the River Rusk."

Thurston chewed his lip a moment, looking over the top of the palisade in the direction of the border. "Damn, I want to go back. Burns my ass to let Pendragon's whelp best our Merlin and simply relinquish the prize. Let him keep those villages. Fortify 'em now, likely as not."

Annis said nothing. It was good for him to express his aggravation and reach the conclusion himself; she learned their first year of marriage that if she tried to tell him what she thought he should do straightforwardly, he'd do the opposite just to be obstinate.

"No," the king said. "We'll keep Merlin's bargain by that much – no one provokes Pendragon by setting foot on his land, not when he'll take it out on the closest Caerleon. Merlin's young yet to bear responsibility for the kingdom like that."

"I'll make sure the men know," Tythan said, giving a nod that took the place of a bow in Beckon Cove. "Ah… he also asked me to tell you, he won't let you down."

Thurston kicked angrily at the grass and stalked away again – picking up a hand-ax from the table as he passed, and slamming the blade deeply into the battered wooden surface without breaking stride.

"Merlin is one to… succeed in unexpected ways," Annis said aloud. Didn't both Evorwick and Stonedown prove that. The villages taken, with less loss of life than might have been the case under another's command. Merlin met expectations one didn't know one held, and somehow made existing standards irrelevant. He wouldn't disappoint them, in the end.

"M'lady, would you know where I could find Hunith or Freya at this hour?" Tythan asked.

She looked at him, seeing the reason for his question but also his exhaustion, anew. "Never mind telling them," she said to him. "I'll do that. You go rest, and refresh yourself."

"Thank you." He hesitated a moment longer. "If you could… let them know I'm happy to talk, to… answer questions, if they want me to. If they need me to."

Annis made a fist and lightly punched the warrior's shoulder. "They will appreciate the offer."

Though she knew, they would _not_ appreciate the news.

He gave her the same nod of respect, then turned toward the barracks, step slow and shoulders slumped, probably with the same sort of uneasy guilt she felt. It was logically unlikely, but if something did happen to Merlin… Maybe she should have… maybe she could have…

Annis left the useless speculation, turning to stride back toward the palace-tower, untying her bracer from her right forearm as she went. Neither Hunith nor Freya was native-born, and right now she needed to look less like Caerleon, and more like another woman who loved the same young man they did.

Even if her own feelings in the moment would prefer the armor and weapons and some expression toward an insensible target.

 **A/N: Sorry this is a little late. I had an accident over the weekend, nothing serious, but I lost a few days because evidently I'm not creatively-minded on hydrocodone. And I am ten times slower with everything else, on crutches. Next chapter might be delayed as well for the same reasons, but it should be shorter, so maybe that'll make a difference… Merlin's pov with Arthur's camp and some conversation with Arthur – and the first Morgana pov. Little nervous about that, tbh…**


	4. Someone You're Looking For

**Chapter 4: Someone You're Looking For**

Merlin woke to a rude and paralyzing blow to his lower back, near enough the spine to send his body into involuntary contortions of _escape-retreat-defend_.

He registered confusion in that split second – no smell of the indigo cloak that should be wrapped around him, no familiar sound of his warriors in camp – and then dread.

 _Captured. Camelot. Hates-_

Magic exploded from him in a furious snarling shield before his eyelids managed to spring open, repulsing waves of energy that matched the throb of pain in his back and down his hip.

"Hey! What the hell-!"

Routine spells had protected his whole camp, when he was leader of Caerleon's warriors, though he hadn't been ostentatious about it. And last night – diffuse sunlight glinted through tree-tops and blinded him – he'd weighed the discourtesy of leaving the rest vulnerable against the insult of using forbidden magic on them or around them unwittingly. But his own _aweardian min hnappiau fram foerhbealo_ spell ought to have-

"Sire! Quickly! We've got to-"

Writhing on the ground, he fought to pull back the surge of magic that had thrown off his attacker, fighting the spell that had sensed no true intent of malice with the burst of surprised pain. Because they were going to kill him _right now_ , while he was trying not to hurt them further; they didn't understand-

"Hold! Every man keep to his place, no one fires, no one-"

And felt the magic snap back to him, finally convinced of momentary security. He rolled to his back gasping, hearing unfamiliar voices swear, shaky with anger and fear.

"The hell was _that_ …"

"Never seen anything like-"

"…Bringing _that_ back to Camelot with us?"

" _Enough_." That voice was closest, and confidently imperious. "Are you done?"

Merlin caught his breath and squinted up at the golden-haired Pendragon prince, looking tall and strong and clean, chainmail and sword-belt, damn him, while Merlin rolled unarmed on his bruises in the dirt. "Yeah," he rasped. "I'm done."

"I said wake our guest, Sir Munt, not offer a foreign royal insult with your boot in his ribs, magic or not. Raider or not."

Pendragon reached down, deliberately, the clenched muscle in his jaw the only indication of emotion, and for a moment, the world stopped. Maybe he thought his glove protected him, or maybe he was focused on the blue – rather than the gold – of Merlin's eyes, to assure him of his safety from magic, but… still. And Merlin could think of no reason beyond pure surliness – which wasn't really characteristic of him anyway, and he wasn't sure he wanted to risk it, this morning – to refuse. Clasping the offered hand, he situated his boots and bent his knees to cooperate with being drawn to his feet.

"I trust you've all learned Sir Munt's lesson," Pendragon added, glancing around. "No one touches the prisoner."

Under the hair that fell over his brow, Merlin glanced quickly around at the knights, locating the one who'd actually been knocked to his feet, getting up slowly but without apparent injury. He breathed easier to know he hadn't maimed anyone unconsciously, even as the rest stared and glared and moved warily around him, some returning weapons to sheaths.

"All right?" the prince added, to him. And maybe the world didn't stop again, but it tilted, a bit. Pendragons weren't supposed to care about sorcerers.

Maybe he was just protecting Camelot from war with Caerleon.

Merlin spread his fingers over his kidney and stretched, wincing. "Oh, yeah, we always wake each other like that in Caerleon."

"I can see that, from the way you jumped like a pinched maid," Pendragon commented sardonically.

Merlin decided, he preferred open sarcasm to covert antipathy. "You make a habit of that, then, pinching maids?"

For some reason, Pendragon ignored that, twisting away from him, and Merlin occupied himself brushing down his trousers and tunic to cover the memory that swirled around him, of the particular maid he respected too much to pinch. Did she know what happened? She must know by now. He hoped that she hadn't cried, that she wouldn't worry too much…

"Breakfast, sire," one of the knights said, approaching with two steaming bowls, the pewter handles of spoons extending over his thumbs.

Merlin swallowed and looked away, shifting his weight to cover a low gurgle from his stomach. He'd had a share from their stewpot the night before, but was entirely uncertain what to expect, as a prisoner – and not just a political hostage, but a hated magic-user. Bread and water? The deepest dungeon?

When the knight handed him the second bowl, he was too surprised to be arrogant or rude, saying automatically, "Thank you."

"That's Sir Leon," Pendragon said conversationally.

Merlin glanced up to catch the knight's nod and small smile – round face, reddish curly hair and whiskers, clear eyes. Not one who feared or hated magic-users, anyway; he nodded back.

"Perhaps it doesn't matter," the prince continued between spoon-fulls. "But it might make you – less uneasy, to know our names."

Merlin grimaced at his own third bite of warm soft grain cereal, flavored with winter-dried berry and a little honey, if he wasn't mistaken. He didn't really want to know names, didn't want for the knights to become ordinary people with personalities and pasts, men who laughed and loved. They were enemies, and his king would expect him to turn some advantage from this misadventure. Perhaps there would be opportunity for… something he could plan later, if his agreement with Pendragon was voided for some reason.

"Sir Munt you just met, you'll have to forgive him, he tends to act before he thinks. Sir Iaelian is his cousin, he was injured yesterday so neither of them is inclined to be compassionate at the moment. Sir Blaec…"

Merlin watched Pendragon as he continued, never hesitating to name or describe his men, even from behind or something of a distance. Then again, they didn't cover their faces, either. He wondered if Prince Arthur picked his own patrols, or whether the king assigned the men.

"And you have a name?" the prince ended, scraping the last heaping spoonful for his mouth.

"We established that yesterday," Merlin answered dryly. Standing a bit stupidly with his bowl in his hand; it felt odd to wait for one of his captors – his enemies – to claim and clean the bowl. He eyed Pendragon surreptitiously, then took a risk – passing his other hand and a harmless bit of magic over the dish, he rendered bowl and spoon spotlessly clean in a blink.

Pendragon stiffened, but otherwise didn't react, and his tone was mild as he asked, "What the hell was that?"

Merlin said innocently, "Cooperation."

"Do you think you're funny?" the other prince queried curiously, his lips quirking to the side. "Maybe we forgot to mention, but magic _isn't allowed_ in Camelot."

"I'm not from around here." Merlin shrugged his excuse, and forced the corners of his mouth down instead of up as the other prince snorted.

"Don't do that again," Pendragon warned him, but Merlin couldn't help a snicker at the bemusement on Sir Carles' face as he came to relieve the princes of their used dishes.

Dishes. And spoons. And a hot breakfast. Merlin wanted to hate Camelot – and came a lot closer to achieving his goal when he realized his hands were to be tied behind him in riding, today. None of the cursory hands-in-front irritation of yesterday's travel, it seemed Pendragon and his men were serious about parading their magic-wielding catch ostentatiously into their capital.

Merlin twitched, feeling the slight pull in his shoulders, the slight imbalance in his thighs as he rode so incommodiously and wondered if vanishing the cords would be considered uncooperative.

Riding with his hands behind him was decidedly uncomfortable, but after the first half of an hour, no longer distracting. The gelding was his from Caerleon, and knew him, and adjusted to his awkwardly conveyed signals well enough for him to keep his seat over rough terrain.

Yesterday he'd been able to ignore the near future by focusing on the immediate present. The unfriendly strangers who surrounded and guarded and suspected him, the unfamiliarity keeping him on guard also. But today, was the day he'd arrive in Camelot's capital. He'd be surrounded not just by a company of knights, but by crowds of common people who'd hate him for his magic, and nobility who'd sneer, and… King Uther Pendragon.

He couldn't help shuddering at the thought. That name he'd known even before Thurston and Annis. That king he'd feared since he knew what fear was.

What would they do with him? How would they treat him? Would there be an element of pain to physical suffering, or just discomfort and deprivation? No comfortable bedchamber with water waiting for him to heat, soap and towels and his own clothing, a small bowl with a pair of fruit for between-meals. No soft bed and familiar blanket and pillows. No mother in the next room for company – no smiles from attendants or passing nods from the fighters…

No friends at all. No privacy, probably; he'd be watched all hours of the day. No freedom to come and go and change his mind and choose what went on his own plate, even.

Merlin sighed, feeling a low thin thrum of constant tension inside his chest.

At least today Pendragon was riding next to him instead of behind him; the hairs on the back of his neck lay composed, feeling no need to stay alert to any unexpected danger by order of the company's commander. No heightened concern that Pendragon would betray their bargain, himself, in attempting to subdue Merlin's magic still further.

"Do you all have your own hauberk of mail?" he asked idly, to distract himself. "Or do all your knights share the same two dozen sets of armor?"

"Why?" Pendragon said, glancing over.

"Because I'm mentally cataloguing your armory for when we attack and demolish Camelot entirely," he said sarcastically. Studying the prince's body instead of his face, the way the metal rings linked and moved with him. "You must have a very good blacksmith."

Arthur cleared his throat. "We have two," he said neutrally. "And an armorer."

Merlin sighed, even knowing the other prince was watching him out of the corner of his eye. The scarlet cloaks were shaped, hemmed, and expertly embroidered with the golden dragon rampant. Their indigo, in comparison, was woven and dyed in square lengths, edges left to unravel or be picked apart for string and thread. And all around him for leagues, the vast tracts of old forest, left alone because it wasn't _needed_ for farmland or pasture.

"It's not hard to see why Caerleon is jealous of Camelot," he said only, facing forward again. And his king would never cease trying to steal more of Camelot's abundance to supplement Caerleon's scarcity.

After some time had passed, Pendragon announced, "I find I'm interested in something, Caerleon."

"Is that a rare occurrence, Pendragon?" he shot back.

The other prince continued, unperturbed already by Merlin's insulting responses – which was only mildly disappointing. "How did you come to be your king's heir?"

"A week of hellish trials for all boys age five to ten in the kingdom," Merlin answered. They'd believe it, too. "I'm the only one who survived. You should see my scars. Sometimes I still dream about the screaming."

"Nightmares?" Pendragon said, his face twisting in disgusted disbelief.

"I miss it," Merlin said, mockingly nostalgic.

A moment of silence, then the other prince drew a deep slow breath and let it out like a sigh. Jingling buckles, creaking leather, thudding hooves… annoyingly distracting pull of muscles… all bringing him closer to Uther Pendragon.

"Their Majesties came to my village," Merlin said awkwardly, abruptly. "Evidently I created an out-of-season flower for Queen Annis, and because they were thinking of adopting an heir already, they decided that someone with magic was their best option." He shrugged as if to dislodge Pendragon's eyes, feeling his regard uncomfortable.

The other prince's expression fell into disappointed disgust. "If I was you, I'd stick to the torture-week story."

Merlin frowned and cocked his head. "Why, is that one more believable?"

Pendragon gestured. "That your king and queen encouraged you to learn magic is believable; they hate Camelot and it would be an advantage for Caerleon."

Merlin ignored the implication that his capture had put his kingdom at a _dis_ advantage. It might _seem_ so, but it would never _be_ so. But would his king – or Camelot's – realize this?

"But that you knew and used magic in your village before a formal education?" Pendragon shook his head decisively. "Impossible."

Merlin snorted. "And of course you are Albion's foremost authority on all things magical, possible or not."

The other prince shot him a glance he didn't think he was supposed to notice, keen and troubled. "How old were you, then? And you just suddenly produced a flower from thin air? How very feminine."

"I was seven," Merlin said in objective defense. "My mother loved flowers, they cheered her up."

"So you had lots of practice," Pendragon goaded him. "With you as a son, she must have needed cheering daily."

Weekly, almost. But thinking of his mother and how he missed her – and Freya - more now than when he was merely absent on a raid, reminded him of a curiosity he had about Pendragon's home life.

"Who's Lady Morgana?" he asked.

Pendragon stiffened in his saddle, gathering his reins and turning his head slightly away. Merlin took the opportunity to glance over his shoulder – snap a twig in the forest to their right flank, and in the moment when everyone's head turned, he set a spell unraveling his bonds. Bringing his hands quickly around in front, he had them tied again before the patrol remembered they shouldn't all be looking in the same direction.

"Someone you're looking for," Merlin added questioningly.

The other prince affected to ignore him. Which was intriguing, given the intensity of his questioning the previous day.

"A young noblewoman," he continued, speculating. "Beautiful and headstrong and… missing. Did she… elope with some anonymous suitor? How long has she been gone?"

Pendragon scowled at him, uneasy rather than angry. "They do that often in Caerleon, young noblewomen?"

Merlin shrugged. "If they can avoid the lady's father dismembering the new husband for a week, the couple is publicly hailed and celebrated."

"Huh," was the only response, but it was thoughtful, not mocking.

And Merlin himself was not ready to try the same tactic to secure his future happiness. She was too young; he was too young. And he had no idea if Thurston and Annis would permit him to marry Freya, a common-born wife for a common-born prince; he didn't want to risk seriously angering his king, staying one step ahead of him for a week. It was entirely possible, at this point in their relationship, that Freya would panic at the thought of being the future queen of Caerleon and _leave_ , sacrificing her shyly professed feelings and his candidly stated ones, for his own good.

"Are you the jilted suitor, then?" he blurted the idea that occurred to him, turning in his saddle to face Pendragon.

"What?"

"You're the jealous betrothed, left behind," Merlin guessed. He knew the story behind the queen mother, but the way Pendragon had flinched when Tythan mentioned Freya in taking his leave – _your sweetheart_ … "Hells, that must be a blow to your reputation. She prefers someone else so adamantly she'd run away from you."

Pendragon gave him a confused grimace. "It's not like that. Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?"

"Everyone in Caerleon," Merlin said cheerfully. "It's why I came here, to find new people to tell me to shut up."

"Shut up," Pendragon said immediately. But he was still troubled and it would only take a bit more pushing…

"So it wasn't like that, huh?" Merlin nodded sagely. "People believe that excuse? It's pretty flimsy." He mocked, "It's not _like_ that. My betrothed wouldn't just _leave_ me – _ob_ viously she's been kidnapped."

"We're not betrothed," Pendragon snapped. "She's not-" He glanced behind them, then ahead, as if suddenly self-conscious about saying something his knights would overhear.

But maybe he'd tell a stranger? Someone who wouldn't say anything anyone would believe? It crossed Merlin's mind that maybe he could bring a treasure of information back to Beckon Cove; Annis at least would appreciate that as averting total failure for his mission.

"She's not what?" Merlin leaned closer, saying in a low confidential voice, "She's not as pretty or spirited as you make out in your search? It's an arrangement between your fathers, so you-"

Pendragon glared at him, then sighed and slumped a few inches in his saddle. "She isn't meant to be queen," he muttered. "When she marries, she inherits her father's estate and her husband will be lord of that. My father doesn't want a horde of deceitful suitors breaking her heart trying to get her inheritance. So it's not a commonly-known fact, but I will _not_ marry Lady Morgana."

"But she's missing," Merlin clarified. "And you're worried?"

"She's been my father's ward for the last twelve years," Pendragon told him. "Her father was a general in our army, and when he was killed, Morgana came to live with us in the citadel." He paused, gloved fingers toying with his reins. "If she'd run away to marry someone my father wouldn't give approval to, she would have let me know. She would have let Gw- her maid know."

Merlin hummed thoughtfully. So the prince would support his… childhood friend? against his father, in her choice of lover. The Pendragons didn't completely agree on everything – interesting. He wondered what King Uther would be like then toward _him_ – calm and unafraid and coolly mocking like his son, or not?

"If you're still asking have-you-seen-her kinds of questions on Caerleon's border," he commented slowly, "that means you have… no idea where to search? What happened?"

Pendragon rubbed something delicately from the corner of his eye with the ball of his thumb. "It was late fall, a year and some months ago," he said. "Thinking back, she might have been acting distantly for a while, but… I was away on a mission the day prior, and… She just, wasn't in her room in the morning. Nothing missing except the clothes she'd been wearing. Gw- her maid was sobbing, after all the questions, she didn't know a thing. I've wondered…" He cast Merlin a side glance.

Twice now he'd begun to say the maid's name and corrected himself. Merlin pretended not to notice the glance and said aloud, "Wondered what?"

"No one saw her. No one heard anything. My mission had been to… Idirsholas."

Merlin dredged his memory of lessons with Alator, mentions of historic instances of dark magic told as cautionary tales. "Seven undying knights in service of a sorceress came to rest there after her death?" he said, to clarify.

"That was the story. But they weren't there – awoken, we feared."

"Hells, Pendragon," Merlin said feelingly, but swallowed any sharper criticism in the interests of continuing the conversation.

"We expected something to come of it, some attack," the other prince continued. "But… there was nothing, except… Morgana's disappearance. I've wondered… whether magic might have been involved."

"Ah," Merlin said, relaxing back in his saddle. "Yeah. Might explain _no one saw_ and _no one heard_. But you've haven't had a ransom?" Pendragon shook his head. "Or any form of threat or taunt or claim of revenge taken?"

He grimaced distastefully at Merlin, who shrugged. Grudges were kind of an obvious result of the Purge – personal and idealistic.

But… over a year, she'd been gone. And innocents ought not be targeted, for any reason. Merlin half-closed his eyes and mentally riffled back through his education. "If she'd been abducted in order to be enchanted for some purpose…" he mused. "Nope. Nothing takes that long to effect, and very nearly all enchantments of the mind are short-lived without renewal. If you're worried a magic-user kidnapped her to use against Camelot, it's highly unlikely. But, it could have been very easy to change some aspect of her appearance to keep her hidden, whether she was cooperating with her captors or not."

"And we could have actually seen her, while we were searching…" Pendragon groaned, and swore to himself.

Merlin began sympathetically, "Yeah, that's-"

"But I'm just supposed to take your word for that?" his companion said abruptly, glaring at him again from under golden eyebrows.

"You are the foremost authority on magic," Merlin reminded him snidely. "I merely offer my humble and inexpert opinion."

The other prince cocked his head as if something had just occurred to him, then shot his gaze to Merlin's hands – tied now in front of him for nearly two hours. "What the hell, Caerleon," he said, sounding tiredly amused.

"What?" Merlin said. "I can't cooperate comfortably?"

Pendragon shook his head. "Put them back behind you when we get there," he warned, pointing at Merlin. "It'll be soon after dusk."

He spurred his horse toward the front of the column, and Merlin called his complaint after him.

"Tyrant!"

Even after dusk, Merlin's first sight of Camelot's citadel took his breath away. And he forgot to school his expression for the knights whose home this was, and who were watching him.

At least no one said anything about his awestruck gaping.

Into the town that had sprung up around the feet of the citadel, spreading and bustling and – he couldn't help thinking – _thriving_ , he almost didn't notice the attention he drew, the bound stranger in the midst of the scarlet-and-silver knights. Because those who hadn't realized his presence and significance – as well as their homes and shops – were _prosperous_.

No ragged edges or meagre spreads or pinched scowls or wary guarding of self and wares and purse. Instead of the harried focus of Caerleon's commoners, these people laughed and called to one another, jokes and compliments. And they were outside the defendable walls of the capital, as if there were never any sudden danger. Beckon Cove's palisades had kept out no less than three attempted invasions during Merlin's years there – Thurston was always fighting down one faction or another who wished to seize power and prove himself better.

Merlin found his eyes stinging, and his chest tight, and he knew how his king felt. How he wished it was this way for Caerleon, whose rocky fields produced barely enough, and stormy cliffs made for perilous fishing, and herds of sheep and goats produced cloth and dairy and meat.

But he didn't want to _take_ Camelot's wealth. He wanted to _match_ it somehow, for his own people. And reward them with the happiness and relaxed satisfaction of assured plenty.

"Don't be scared," the prince's voice drawled in his ear. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

He realized he'd let his chin fall to his chest, to watch his surroundings from the edges of his vision, hiding his own face and eyes. "No," he said immediately, lifting his chin. "It's just – hells, do you take all this for _granted_?"

Pendragon gave him a startled look, and then they were through the portcullis and into a courtyard of the soaring white citadel. It was a square castle, half again as high as Beckon Cove's tower, most of it, with half a dozen spires reaching still higher. Cobblestone courtyard that could see Caerleon's entire standing army marshaled in rows and columns. If they ever formed themselves so, like the little patrol crossing the area.

And the statue mounted on the stone horse – Bruta, he assumed, who'd divided Albion in the first place. Merlin studied the statue and wondered how the borders had changed, and if Bruta's beneficiaries had deemed it fair at the time.

One of the knights crossing the courtyard stopped and redirected his steps to meet Arthur, dismounting. Several stable-boys came out to receive the mounts from the other members of their company, and Merlin had to concentrate to hear Pendragon through the comments anticipating the relief and comfort of warm wash-water and full plates and soft beds.

And what did he have to look forward to?

"…Left orders that you should report as soon as possible, sire," the knight was saying to his prince. "Anytime between first light and midnight… Private dinner in-chambers."

Pendragon asked a question Merlin lost in Sir Leon's suggestion for him to dismount, and he shifted to command his gelding to sidle away from Leon and toward the prince.

"…See him directly," Pendragon replied, then gestured toward Merlin. "This is the prince of Caerleon, our hostage. Put him in the first cell and see to it that he has a bucket of warmed water, two clean blankets and a clean towel, and his own saddlebags."

Merlin was surprised at the thought of comfort he could expect, finally ceasing to ignore Sir Leon. He kicked his boots free of the stirrups, swung his right leg over his gelding's withers, and hopped to the cobblestones, hands still tied behind his back.

And then he remembered, as he was left among unfamiliar faces again, and Pendragon disappeared up the wide steps to the citadel's main entrance, that the prince still had his book of magic.

Merlin wondered dismally whether boredom might not be his biggest complaint, here.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …*….. …..*…..

Morgana pushed the last portion of her dinner around her plate absently, not as hungry as she thought she'd be, tonight of all nights. The bread and sausage, mushroom and herb stuffing had crumbled from the capon, leaving the curl of light meat empty, and all of it cooled.

It occurred to her to appreciate the cook who'd been feeding her so well all year, unwittingly, someone she'd never met and probably never would. There were certain pastries this cook made, better and different than she'd ever eaten before or anywhere else. And she'd miss them – the thought gave her a fluttery feeling under her heart.

Nerves?

Without raising or turning her head, she watched her sister unhesitatingly slice through capon and stuffing, and lift a bite to her mouth – and realized Morgause's eyes were on her, fully aware of her regard. She straightened, and laid her unneeded silverware down deliberately.

Morgause didn't immediately speak, chasing her swallow with a mouthful of wine from her goblet; Morgana's matching vessel was nearly untouched, but the thought of the stimulating warmth down her throat and in her stomach, lightening her head and disconnecting her brain, made her nervous tonight.

"You're not nervous, are you?" Morgause questioned, because at times she _could_ read Morgana's mind.

Her eyes were dark, hawk-like – nothing like what Morgana saw in the mirror. They hid thoughts and feelings alike, allowing no expression beyond carefully chosen words to escape Morgause's control. Morgana had loved that about her sister, a year ago – still did, of course – had emulated it. But privately despaired of ever achieving that implication of unruffled dispassion. Everyone could see that _her_ cool marble mask was just that – pretense, not substance.

And Morgause was never nervous. Completely confident, completely focused, every minute of every day. Morgana was ashamed to collapse alone in her room after dinner, so many days of the week, exhausted to tears at the weakness and inadequacy she couldn't help feeling in comparison.

"Of course not," she said boldly, though almost certainly her sister knew the lie. "I was simply reviewing our plans in my mind so there will be no chance of mistake."

Morgause finished her last bite, chewing thoroughly, and laid her fork and knife down precisely across her plate. "Perhaps you're not ready for this."

Morgana's half a dinner pinched and soured in her stomach. "I am," she contradicted, feeling the muscles up the back of her neck stiffen. Trying to form her will into fact with the strength of determination alone. "I can do my part."

 _Trust me. Believe me_. Because she gathered from her sister's comments, there would be issues with delaying, on the end of the king and his army. It had to be now; they couldn't afford to wait; everyone else was ready.

"It won't be easy," Morgause warned darkly, as she had been warning Morgana since their arrival in this castle, her home now for over a year. The place where they resided, rather – and temporarily, as she knew Morgause viewed it. A means to an end, like Cenred himself.

As all men were, especially those dullards who possessed no magic, and therefore didn't understand it and therefore failed to appreciate it.

Morgana bristled without really understanding the reaction. "I know it won't be easy," she answered, barely keeping her tone from snapping at her beloved and idolized older sister, who had sacrificed for her and given her so much this year, and who wouldn't tolerate being snapped at by anyone. "It wasn't _easy_ being raised by Uther Pendragon."

"No," Morgause agreed, reaching over the corner of the table to grip Morgana's hand. "But you're not alone anymore. And you're learned to control yourself so admirably."

Had she really been alone there? It had been impossible to smother nostalgia completely, this isolated year in Cenred's castle, in spite of Morgause's explanations on the self-deceptive nature of emotions and the pointless reliance on memories. Her training had been almost punishingly intense, compared to the exercises Gaius had described in theory to her, unaware that she'd needed and used them. Useless things. And opposite in effect to what Morgause had taught her – don't bank the fire and scatter the coals, fan and fuel them into greater and stronger and wilder magic, then release and direct it, all the time, more and more. Like an infinite and powerful and invisible muscle.

"No, I'm not concerned about my magic being discovered," Morgana said, and that was the truth. "I know now that Uther will never be convinced to change his mind or his laws. I know that it's our responsibility to defend the defenseless against tyrants, and so he must be removed from his throne. My belief in that truth and trust in our magic gives me strength."

"Good," Morgause said approvingly, but her eyes narrowed. "What part of our plan gives you pause, then, sister?"

Sister. She hadn't had such a close connection in years, though it felt different than the relationships she'd developed in Camelot, and not what she'd expected when she learned the truth. Not as much as what she'd hoped, when she left everything and everyone else behind a year ago. Because that's what Morgause had done for her, wasn't it? That's what family did, wasn't it.

And she wouldn't, couldn't, think back to Trevena and what she'd lost and left there.

"No part," she answered reflexively.

The plan was sensible, in all its facets they'd discussed down to minutiae. Uther could not be convinced to change, or to abdicate his throne. She refused to be involved in an assassination – and Morgause had agreed almost immediately, such was morally beneath them, and the reason why others had failed before them. Therefore, Uther had to be conquered and dethroned. By an army, and just so happened Morgause had an – understanding, with self-styled King Cenred.

And, because this war wasn't about the common people of Camelot – who'd followed Uther obediently away from magic, but would follow another just as obediently toward it – there needed to be a strategy to begin, win, and end the fighting swiftly and decisively. With as little bloodshed as possible. Which meant, someone on the inside.

"Cenred has personally chosen the men who will put you in place," Morgause assured her. "No one will question your rescue. No one will doubt _you_ – all sympathy will be yours for your ordeal, and your lack of answers will be comforted, rather than suspected."

"Of course," Morgana said. "I don't imagine my freedom to come and go throughout the citadel will be restricted at all…" She'd lose her privacy, though – there would be servants and knights and nobles all over her, with that deplorable sympathy. She'd be crowded with compassion – and friendless, because no one could understand her like her sister.

"And I will be waiting in our place in the forest to meet you, when you acquire the final ingredient of the potion," Morgause assured her.

Morgana grimaced slightly. _She_ was not so certain of Uther's tears. But she'd learned more than a little from her sister, how to manipulate men – especially when they didn't expect a woman to be capable of that, in emotion or intelligence. Morgause was fortunate that Cenred seemed happy to be manipulated.

"I will complete the magic of the spell, and there will be no error."

"Doubtless," Morgana agreed.

"And as long as you can introduce the object into Uther's private chamber," Morgause cocked an eyebrow at her, "he will be unable to lead the defense."

How unable? Morgana shifted in her seat. Blissfully unconscious? Somehow she thought not, but when she asked, her sister had smiled wolfishly and told her not to worry. The enchantment laid with his tears would lock him into a prison of his mind without any outward sign to give them away. And wasn't that justice in itself? Give Uther his own company – the weakness of his own memories - for a couple of days.

But that meant, Arthur would lead the knights…

"Arthur is a better man than his father," Morgana said softly, staring at the salt cellar to avoid her sister's piercing gaze. "And the knights are loyal to him. They'll defend Camelot with their lives…"

"Which is why you'll plant the rowan staff in the crypts," Morgause said with satisfaction – not a hint of persuasion; she was sure of Morgana's resolve, which was reassuring. But not that she was questioning Morgana's preparedness or ability. "They can't fight on two fronts, their defenses will be immediately breached and their reliance on the impregnability of the citadel will fail. Therefore, they will surrender quickly."

Morgana wished she was brave enough to argue. _Surrender quickly_ was not something she expected from Arthur, ever; he was stubborn enough to fight for the sake of fighting. Dozens of memories flecked her consciousness like cloves on cream – the look on his face to fight magic, to contemplate magic, to doubt…

But unless he surrendered, he would never be brought to consider free magic – innocent magic – more deserving of championship than his father's place on a tyrannical throne. Which he could and would take, Morgause assured her, after satisfactory negotiation.

And that, she would describe no more closely than the enchantment intended for Uther. Days in that not-terribly-uncomfortable first cell. Maybe weeks, if they were stubborn. Which they very well might be… and Morgana had never mustered the courage to question, who would rule in the meantime, even if in name only…

It occurred to her that she might run from planting the rowan staff to wherever Arthur was fighting, and persuade him, he couldn't win. And end it all the sooner.

She must have been too thoughtful for Morgause; her sister gave a hard sigh, sitting back in her chair and looking away from the table where they two always ate, alone, before pushing to her feet. Morgana rose immediately, ready to follow.

"I'm asking too much of you," Morgause said over her shoulder, pausing on the way to the door. "Your former friends will never understand that this is for them, they'll think you betrayed them, they can't accept that you're one of us now, and your concerns loftier than just one or two people. And that hurts you… It's too soon – you're not ready."

"I am," Morgana declared, as firmly confident as she could, hurrying to reach Morgause's side, putting a hand on her shoulder so she'd look at her again. "I am, sister. You can trust me. You've got to trust me, we cannot delay any longer. I know how much this plan relies on me, and I will accomplish our goals, I swear by our father's grave."

The dark predatory gaze evaluated her a moment more – she stiffened and lifted her chin in response – and Morgause relented.

"I would do it if I could," she said. "But I must trust you, instead. You won't let me down. Victory at any cost."

Morgana smiled, relieved and terrified at once, and sick to her stomach with the churning mix. No more second thoughts; in the morning they'd leave for Camelot, and their plans would proceed under their own momentum.

"I'll walk you to your room," Morgause added, curling her fingers lovingly around Morgana's upper arm.

She complied with the affectionate touch, though it made walking together somewhat uncomfortable and awkward, out to the hall between the private dining room where Cenred joined them occasionally, and her small inner chamber. As always, Morgause flicked her fingers and some wordless magic at both guards stationed at two corridor junctures, to turn their heads and let Morgana pass by absolutely unnoticed.

"I do wish you'd teach me that spell," Morgana remarked. "I could use it myself, then, you wouldn't have to walk me to my room."

"Oh, I don't mind," Morgause assured her inattentively, her thoughts elsewhere.

"No, of course not…" Her sister had spent lots of hours with her that weren't focused on training and tutoring, pure recreation when they went all the way outside the castle. And once a month, riding in the forest for fresh air and a change of scene and exercise, just the two of them. Because it wouldn't do to have Morgana recognized and reported - or even mentioned in unrelated gossip – even if Cenred's men were paid to be loyal, and the magic necessary to constantly disguise her unwisely spent. "I just thought, it might be useful when I'm back in Camelot."

Morgause stopped abruptly and faced her in the middle of the hall. "Do not use magic in Camelot unless I've given you permission," she ordered sternly. Morgana was taken aback for a moment, til her sister softened her features and added, "I don't know what I'd do if you were caught. It would be the end of… everything."

"I won't be caught," Morgana assured her. "I'll be careful." It was so warming, to have someone care and worry about her like that – even after she knew about the magic. But Morgause had known about that almost since Morgana suspected the truth about herself. Sister's intuition, she said. Which of course made them even closer.

Still… she couldn't help but think of Gwen, who'd been a sister-surrogate even before Morgana knew she actually had a blood sibling. And Arthur, she supposed, reassured by Gwen that brothers could be annoying and loved, at once. They didn't know about _her_ magic, but when they did… she honestly wasn't sure.

At her bedchamber door, Morgause embraced her, tight muscle and strong bones – there was very little soft or warm about her, because of her past, her childhood and upbringing on the Priestess' Isle, through the siege and on the run for years afterward. Morgana was a little in awe of her for that, and just happy that her sister was able to express her devotion to family at all – the time she spent, the plans she shared, the invaluable education in magic that Morgana would never be able to repay.

"Get a good night's sleep," Morgause urged her. "You need to be well-rested and clear-headed."

Morgana didn't say, _You too_. She simply didn't say things like that to Morgause. Instead, she gave in to impulse, a momentary feeling. "I'm going to miss this."

"What, being here?" Morgause looked at her as she had the one time Morgana asked, did she ever wish she never had magic.

"No, I…" Not the castle, and the strangers within it who remained oblivious to her presence. Not the hiding and the physical restrictions of that necessity. "Being with you. Eating our meals together, and all the training. Our conversations."

Morgause gave her a mildly exasperated look. "I'm glad it's over. And you don't need that kind of intensive time anymore, do you? I trust your loyalty. You're going to go back to Camelot and make me proud, aren't you."

"Of course I will," Morgana answered, hiding faint disappointment. In herself, for feeling and expressing the useless emotions.

Morgause's painted lips curved in an approving smile, and she opened Morgana's door, ushering her inside and letting it swing shut against curious eyes even as she said, "Good night, sister."

"Good night," Morgana said to the closing door.

Faintly she heard her sister's shoes click away down the hall – to bed? to Cenred? she'd never had the temerity to ask – and leaned against the inside of the door, alone again.

Her room was small, every part visible from every other part. Bed and wardrobe and washstand, desk and bookshelf, dressing table and mirror. A fur on the floor and another on the bed, and her candle burning low on the dressing table, where the reflection increased the illumination.

There were spells in place, for her protection and safety. The room was warded for sound, so if she had a nightmare – she twisted the engraved silver cuff around her wrist absently – no one would be alerted. The door was enchanted as well – not only impossible to open from the outside, Morgana was thankful to know, after first meeting her sister's lover – but also invisible to anyone who did not have magic.

Which was a double security against Cenred. Morgana pushed away from the door, taking a wandering circuitous route past the dressing table to leave her jewelry – why wear it, if she only ever saw her sister? well, her sister dressed up for her, how could she do less, especially when the pieces were gifts from Morgause – and the washstand to clean cosmetics from her face, on the way to the wardrobe.

She'd left Camelot with nothing, and she'd return with nothing, that was the story of bandit abduction and mercenary imprisonment. But it wasn't quite true? She was returning with a wealth of knowledge about her gift, new relationships, new loyalties, new goals.

Morgana unfastened her gown, stepping out of it and hanging it next to the others Morgause had given her, more than keeping her promise to take care of Morgana, when she left Camelot it seemed like a lifetime ago. Wrapping and tying her over-robe around her, she returned at the dressing table to take the pins from her hair before brushing it for bed.

For the first time in months, she wondered how Gwen was doing. Initially she'd been worried that her friend was worried – but Morgause had convinced her it was best for everyone if she left no clue behind her whatsoever. And then she'd been kept too busy for reminiscing.

Would Gwen be her maid again, when she returned? It would be easier if it was someone else, but… she missed Gwen. A little. Morgause's fiery personality imparted energy and direction and conviction so definitely, Morgana was a little unnerved to find those things lacking somewhat when they were apart. But if Morgause was the pull from ahead, onward and upward, Gwen was like support from below and behind, patient and steady.

She wondered what Gwen had done, all year. Back to the forge with her brother? Covered in soot and smoke and sweat, keeping house for a man who wasn't… Morgana's brush clattered to the polished surface of the dressing table.

Gwen could be _married_ by now. Gwen could be married and _have a baby_ , by now.

Morgana studied her reflection. She was maybe a little thinner, maybe a little paler for not having seen much sun this year. Still beautiful, which was another reason for hiding from Cenred's soldiers. Yet another topic she did not debate with Morgause – the necessity of seducing the king. Morgause had smiled her predator's smile and told her it was the cheapest form of payment. Morgana privately resolved that she would never sell her body like that – her magic, maybe, in direst need, but…

At her dressing table in Camelot, there was a hidden compartment in the back of the central drawer, and in it her most cherished, most secret possession. Even more than spell-books from Morgause, jewels from Uther or the collection of birthday daggers from Arthur or the one hair pin Gwen had bought ribbons for, and then tied into a fancy knot herself, as a gift.

It was a tiny portrait she'd done herself, after one of her childhood lessons in drawing and painting. Done when she was missing Trevena rather badly, her emotions in turmoil as her body took the first step into adulthood unexpectedly and without her permission. A freckled face and a toothy grin and a mop of honey-brown hair. He was energetic, too, but it was the vigor of a comrade, not a leader – fast and graceful in all their remembered games. She rarely allowed herself even to think his name, but the recollection of Trevena was the recollection of _him_.

Her mother had died when she was young, and her father had been gone so often – gone fighting Uther's wars against magic. Another reason to blame him for Gorlois' death and the end of that life. Anything he'd tried to give her could never make up…

Morgana twisted to blow out the candle, and felt her way to the bed, reminding herself of the finer materials she could expect again, after tomorrow. And someone to clean the room by hand, instead of her sister stepping just over the threshold to banish dust with a wave of her hand. Another useful spell she didn't know, as she couldn't risk using it in Camelot, anyway.

She snuggled down in the linen sheets, under the warm fur, and thought involuntarily of Trevena by the sea. The salt in the fresh air. Crying into her pillow, the last night before that odious maidservant had dragged her and her things into the carriage. She hadn't been back – and wouldn't go back, not until she was in control of her own destiny. Not until she conquered every mind and heart of everyone who mattered; almost she'd achieved that goal, in Camelot, though Pendragons were damned stubborn.

And she was so close to that personal triumph now, again. She would conquer Camelot. And then Camelot would let her have Trevena as her own, not through some _man_ who would be its lord and authority. _Hers_ , with all that meant – the land, and the people…

Maybe there was another spell on the room, a soporific one to help her sleep; the darkness swam into oblivion.

 **A/N: Surprise! update – and a longer chapter than I expected, too! Thanks so much for the motivation your lovely reviews inspire! It turns out that in tripping over my half-grown puppy in my kitchen, I tore my left-knee ACL. Outpatient surgery if I'm lucky, but PT in any case, so… I guess that's just FYI. I dunno yet if or how it'll affect these updates the next few weeks and months…**

 **Also, Merlin's spell means basically, protect my sleep from (mortal affliction; deadly evil).**


	5. Sense of Separation

**Chapter 5: Sense of Separation**

" _Merlin_ …" whispered the head of the fire-dragon from the hearth in his new, enormous room. It was a teasing, laughing sing-song in the world's deepest, quietest, calmest voice. " _Mer-lin_ …"

Almost as good as one of his mother's lullabies, remembered but unneeded for several years, now. He wasn't a baby, anymore, he was a big boy. But tonight, he was just… alone. In a new place. In a place that made him shiver inside and feel… lost.

" _Don't cry_ ," the dragon whispered, amused and sympathetic, with a voice like rock under earth. " _I'm here_ …"

"Merlin!" Another whisper, and that voice made him jump, and roll over in his bed.

His mother hurried toward him, her feet bare and her old shawl thrown over a new white night-dress. She glanced at the hearth but didn't startle or pause to see his dragon, and he shifted away from the edge of the bed to let her sit and draw up her feet before he put his head in her lap.

"What are you doing?" she asked, soft and low.

He wondered what would happen to him here if he screamed and threw a fit. If anyone would bang on their door with torches and make his mother cry even as she pleaded with him not to.

"I was lonely," he admitted, feeling two fat miserable tears squeeze from the corners of his eyes. But over at the hearth, he let the fire-dragon curl and settle and go back to sleeping without magic, logs and ash and coal and flickering flame.

His mother hummed, wiping the tears and combing his hair with her fingers. "It's going to be wonderful to have that huge hearth full, all winter, isn't it?" she said. "I don't even need the one in my room, it's so warm, especially if we leave the door open. Then it's almost like we're still in the same room, isn't it?"

He twisted, curling his body a different way, so he could look up at her face. "You like it here?" he asked.

"You don't?" She sounded surprised, and it made him feel more lost. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand, and that made him lonelier than being alone while she slept in the other room. "You have all this space," she continued, following the wave of her hand with her eyes, around the room that was bigger than their home in Ealdor.

More space for her to clean, if she wouldn't let him try magic.

"You'll have lots of new toys. And clothes that fit you, and are warm enough, and look handsome," she continued. "And a tutor, they said, and lessons, and education – much more than just, me teaching you letters."

Things that would separate their time together, and keep him from exploring the woods – did they even have woods, here? – and make him look like someone else, and think like someone else.

"There's so much stone," he said. "It's cold, and hard, and… I don't know how to get out."

At least she didn't say, _why do you need to get out_. "We're not prisoners here, Merlin. We're guests, at least til we decide, this is permanent. You've still got that gold coin? We can leave when we want to…"

He heard the hesitation in her voice. Because they'd ridden a very long way in the queen's carriage, and it would be even longer, walking. And winter was close, and it was warm here. His belly was full, and he hoped that meant hers was, too.

"I don't want to leave," he said slowly. "I just wish… I could run out that door, to the trees, and to the brook."

"But you won't need to, here," she said persuasively, gently yanking a handful of his hair. "There won't be any boys to tease you or hurt you, here. You'll be like the king's son, and you won't have to hide your magic in case someone tells King Uther."

"Yes, but…" _King's son_ made him strange and different and alone, just like _magic_ had, in Ealdor. "Did you see the kids, when we got here and the king told everyone who we were?" There weren't many; children of the servants, he guessed, rather than the warriors, who didn't have any women standing among them. Maybe their wives and families lived somewhere else.

"I wasn't really looking at the children," his mother murmured, in a tone that made him curious, and he turned his head on her lap, watching her face upside down as the firelight played across it.

"What were you looking at?" he asked curiously.

"The men…" She swallowed and her eyes looked unusually shiny. "I wondered if I'd recognize any of them."

"How could you?" Merlin pushed himself up off her lap, making his elbow stiff so the heel of his hand would support him. "Everyone we know is in Ealdor."

"I know," she agreed. "I just thought… maybe one of the warriors…"

"Will I have to be a warrior if we live here?" he said, and shivered. They all looked so big and mean and hairy. His own body would be a stranger if he was like one of them when he grew up.

His mother smiled and reached to cup her hand around his cheek. "You don't ever have to be anything you don't want to be."

That made him feel better. A little less lost. "But how am I going to get out of here?" he said. "Past the walls, and the people?"

"There isn't anything close by for a league or so, from what I can see," she told him. "Rocks, and cliffs. And you can't go by yourself – I'm not even sure we can go together, without… someone to keep us safe."

"What if I had a horse?" he said, remembering the queen's suggestion.

His mother laughed softly. "Yes, maybe if you had a horse. You could ride and ride, away and around, and then be back for dinnertime. But you're maybe a bit young, and we're new here, to ask for something like that."

"Let's stay til I can get a horse, then," he decided. A horse could help them get back to Ealdor faster and easier, too.

"That sounds like a good plan," his mother said, sounding amused and sympathetic like the fire-dragon. "For now, go to sleep. It'll be more familiar and more comfortable around here after a few days, okay? And no more playing with the fire. Good night, Merlin."

"Okay," he said agreeably, snuggling down in the little nest he'd made in the large bed. " 'Night."

* * *

 _Midsummer in Arthur's twentieth year, a young lady and her dispossessed father ventured into Camelot on their way to Caerleon. They were offered shelter in Camelot, and for several days it seemed like their plans might have changed. Perhaps they found a prince who was closer and easier… However, when Arthur announced that he intended to marry the young lady and indicated his willingness to elope, Uther reacted to protect his throne and his heir from the threat as he perceived it. The lady and her father were accused of using enchantments against the prince; they were immediately disarmed and divested of all belongings – which were locked away in the vaults - and publicly executed the next day. Arthur woke expressing both disbelief and disgust when informed of the actions and words he didn't remember, and that hadn't been his own._

 _Just over two weeks later, there was another execution of someone accused of crimes involving magic. A druid had been both trapped and caught in the market, and was punished capitally within the hour. It took citadel defenders another hour to locate and capture the child who'd been with the druid, but because the prince objected to the execution of a child quite strenuously, the druid boy was placed in a cell overnight, til the prince could be brought into agreement with the king. By morning, the boy had disappeared from his cell. The king questioned his ward closely, since she had been particularly outspoken on the subject as well, but could not conclusively prove that either she or the prince were involved. He did find it suspicious that the two, who habitually argued more than they agreed, enjoyed a very harmonious month following the child's disappearance._

* * *

Merlin was three steps down the tunnel-stair – to the cells of the citadel, was a safe assumption – when he heard the whispers. And maybe if all his senses – _magic_ – hadn't been completely alert and wary around fresh armed strangers in Uther's Camelot, he might not have heard them at all. Might have attributed the subtle trepidation and hair-raising chill to the temperature and the place.

 _Help us, someone, please! Oh goddesses, why won't anyone listen? We_ _haven't done anything wrong!_

"You keep your prison pretty crowded?" he said, twisting slightly in the soldiers' grip to look at the one on his left. They wore helmets rather than turbans – damn prosperous Camelot – but the nose-guard threw shadows that effectively hid expressions.

"Shut up. Keep moving," he was told.

 _Magic isn't evil, you are! You curse this land with your hatred and ignorance and_ _you damn your people to follow your path without choice! This will not be without_ _consequence, Uther Pendragon!_

And he realized, reaching the bottom of the stair and glimpsing the rows of empty barred cells, he wasn't _hearing_ the voices. Not with his ears.

"In here," his guard said, shoving him through a plank door with a small square cut at eye-height, into a stone-walled chamber.

Two steps down, and daylight still showing from deliberately-missing stones at the top of the walls. Straw on the floor to combat filth and chill, and an inches-thick mattress on a bed-frame, a bucket in a corner blind from the door. Maybe half the size of his chamber at Beckon Cove, eight paces by about five. Fresh air too, though if it rained those apertures were probably drainage for the cobblestone courtyard.

"I hate to mention," he said, turning at the bottom of the stair. "But I expected dinner and clean linens. Wash-water."

They looked at him a moment, then swung the door closed. He sighed and released his bonds without a verbal spell, shaking the circulation back into his arms and stretching them from their unaccustomed position behind his back. He heard the bolt shoot across the outside of the door, and a key scraped in the lock…

A _key_.

"You must be joking?" he called toward the little window in the door. "Magically locked with a magical key? You know that you're _using_ _magic_ , then, right? And if I wanted to escape, I could just… melt the hinges or something."

Dead silence. Hint of movement past the window-square, then shuffling-hurried steps.

Merlin sighed again. "No sense of humor…"

 _We were your loyal subjects! We were your friends! We used our powers for you, and did whatever you asked, and Camelot flourished with magic! Why are you doing this? You can't win a war like this – please stop fighting us! Let us go – at least let us leave Camelot and live elsewhere… please? Please!_

 _Hello_? he tried tentatively. He'd been taught it was far easier to speak mind-to-mind if you knew the person you addressed. If you knew they were there, and had magic…

There was no answer, not even a pause in the overlapping words teasing the edge of his consciousness. He paced his room – cell, his cell – back and forth and all around, eyes half shut to listen.

 _All I did was heal my friend! I should have let her die?_

 _You killed my parents! I hate you! They did nothing to you, they did nothing wrong, and you burned them and I wish it was you that died! I wish I'd killed you! I wish I could – and someday someone will! You will suffer, you will scream – and magic will return to Camelot!_

Merlin shivered at the acid infecting the words, and wished he could unhear them. Wished he didn't understand, wished he wasn't tempted the same direction.

He didn't notice that his door had been opened for a pair of nervous male servants til the second was stepping down the stair, and the first already bending warily sideways to him to lay down an armful of folded cloth next to a bucket with his saddlebags leaning against it. Merlin blinked and watched the second go ghost-pale to meet his eyes, and almost drop a pewter dish with a twist of bread resting on the wide lip in place of tableware.

"I've got it," he offered, gesturing to float the dish and bread across the cell to him.

The servant gasped and whirled; his companion kicked the water-bucket in a mad scramble up the steps and out the cell door. Merlin caught his dish in one hand – aromatically steaming beef stew – his bread in the other, and the wobbling bucket with his magic. How incredibly pointless, for innocent people like that to be so deathly scared of harmless magic.

"Hey, have you actually got other magic-users imprisoned here?" he called to the guard who slammed the door and screeched the _key_ in the lock. "Or am I just… hearing things," he muttered to himself.

 _Help! Help me, please! Please, you have to help me! They're going to kill me!_

 _Emrys!_

 _Where are you, Emrys? Help us, Emrys, please!_

Dinner and washing didn't distract him enough. The dwindling of dusk to darkness and the diffuse flicker of torchlight outside of his cell didn't help enough.

 _Mama, I'm scared – are they going to kill us? Will the fire hurt? Can't Emrys_ _hear us? I don't want to die!_

 _Emrys!_

He'd heard of prisoners who scratched marks on the walls of their cells to keep track of the days, or left messages to future inmates. This must be the sorcerer's version of that.

 _Why won't Emrys help us? Where is he? Doesn't he care about us?_

It was worse than silence. He wondered if he was going to be able to sleep at all. And then he realized, though there was overlap and words droned too low for him to catch, it was _repetitious_.

"No, no, no," he groaned, pulling his heels onto the bed to shield his chest with his knees, pressing his thumbs into his temples. "I don't have to cooperate with _this_ , do I?"

 _Help us – you monster! – your friends – healed my friend – killed my parents!_

The stone of the citadel loomed over his spirit, expanding heavy and impenetrable, each stone bleeding into the next and then freezing, over joints and breaks. The windows were blocks of ice and the doors closed throats that only led down and deeper, not out and free. Every consciousness of every person like a kicked anthill, swarming in and out and over the fused mass of hemorrhaging stone, weeping maniacally and laughing sobs and jabbering gibberish, under his skin and inside his skull.

 _This is how he does it_ , Merlin thought. _How Uther punishes and holds and keeps us. He drives us mad – we drive each other mad_ …

The key shrieked, like claws over slate, and he shuddered, having to drop his feet and stand because immobility would amplify and extend the sound, he knew it.

 _I should have let her die! You killed – I hate – burned them – you will suffer, you will scream – will the fire hurt I don't want to die…_

"Here, sorcerer," someone said gruffly.

Chainmail, and no helmet – a knight, he guessed, and stepped forward almost hastily, glad for a living voice. The man had one foot on the stair like he was ready to turn and flee, if necessary – one hand on his sword-hilt betraying his posture, and something silver like mail coiled in his other palm.

"A gift from the king," the knight continued, offering the handful of metal a few more inches.

"A gift," Merlin scoffed – but curiosity and maybe desperation made him stretch his fingertips toward it. Magic thrummed there, unmistakably but quietly, a hypnotic song without words, promising the peace and silence of emptiness.

"A condition of your imprisonment," the knight added. He was hard and tough, middle-aged, and if he was afraid of Merlin, it didn't show. "Put it on."

"Do you think me an idiot?" Merlin said. "Your king's reputation precedes him somewhat."

The knight sneered. "The king is prepared to honor Prince Arthur's bargain with you, hostage of Caerleon, and to repeat assurances of safety and well-being. If you cooperate."

Merlin thought he might be beginning to hate the word. His fingers brushed the metal – links like mail armor, but slightly smaller. More like the chain that held his symbol of Caerleon's royalty – appropriated by Arthur for proof or trophy or whatever, as was his right as captor. There was no change to the magic, whatever enchantment it held, it didn't react to him, just continued emitting that serene tuneless humming.

He noticed that the whispers had quieted – not as if he or they were further distant, but like a breeze had quickened to block and blow the words and sounds past his ears.

 _My friend – my parents – Mama…_

Every other link was solid, a series of tiny number 8's embracing the next head to foot and turned at right angles. Picking it up, he realized it was too short to slip over his head, but would leave plenty of room if fastened around his neck.

"And this will, what?" he asked the knight. "Block me from the magic of the earth, or trap mine inside me, or siphon and store it, or-"

"Just – prevent you using it," the knight interrupted, grimacing like he didn't understand the question and wished it hadn't been him chosen for this job.

"Interesting," Merlin said. "But the minute I put it on, what's to stop – well, anyone, really, killing me from sheer hatred of magic?"

The knight inhaled through his nose and drew himself up to his full height – two inches shorter than Merlin. "What's stopping you killing me with your magic right now? And all the rest? And taking Camelot like you tried to take those villages?"

Oh, yeah, that.

Merlin said softly, "Honor, I suppose." He lifted his eyes from the connected links, and met those of the knight – someone who'd fought magic and hated those who wielded it, maybe. "Isn't it ironic, though, that he expects me to trust my life in his hands, stained with the blood of my kind, and yet in the same moment refuses to trust my word?"

"Raider of Caerleon," the knight said, reminding and almost daring him.

Merlin held the man's eyes. And even without a name, he knew this man had family, and friends; laughter had left lines around his eyes. He realized with a feeling like settling silt on the riverbed, that Uther Pendragon expected his defiance. Maybe wished to provoke it. Maybe this man was a volunteer, offering himself to the ire of an enemy sorcerer, knowing his companions waited just outside with crossbows in ambush, and Merlin couldn't deflect them all in trying to escape. And the first one that hit him would be his death, for it would disrupt and distract and there would be more, and swiftly, piercing him til magic bled out with his life and he lay still. And Uther could send a message to Caerleon, _He tried to escape; we defended ourselves_.

 _Where are you – help us – can't – why won't…_

Contemplatively, Merlin passed the links through his fingers, finding no clasp – but he had a feeling the two unjoined end-rings would seek to embrace and close the circle on their own. Then maybe only magic could remove it – magic, or death. Alator had discussed such devices with him; the druid had been dismissive, believing that fear had just as much to do with the success of the restraint, as any intrinsic quality of the piece or strength of enchantment. If one believed they were blocked, so they were.

And conversely, if one believed one couldn't be blocked… Merlin couldn't help a curiosity. And, the whispers were so faint he'd forgotten them for a moment.

 _Emrys Emrys Emrys…_

The knight cleared his throat, as if Merlin's lack of reaction changed his expectations for his mission. "Prince Arthur wanted me to say… if you felt more comfortable receiving this from his hand, he would come in my place at your request."

Merlin's mouth twisted. So the prince knew about this extra requirement, also. And he'd been kept away from Merlin's anticipated tantrum over the condition – at least initially. But it made him think of Tythan, the first time Merlin had hopped up to the saddle of the dun gelding – so far up, and both of them nervous strangers. His trainer had sympathetically offered to ride pillion, or walk alongside the gelding, whatever would ease Merlin's trepidation til he became a rider, not just a passenger gingerly sitting the saddle.

"I don't believe I need anyone to hold my hand," Merlin said dryly.

The knight snorted, as if surprised by the comment – and his own inclination to answering amusement.

 _You make your own destiny_ , he told himself, as Annis had often said – though Alator had refused to explain why he scoffed at the sentiment. _You make your own_ _destiny_ … Maybe it was a ruse and maybe they'd try to kill him and maybe his king would go to war with Camelot again over it and they'd lose and Caerleon would descend into the sort of lawless violent scuffle for power he'd heard about from Cenred's territory.

"If I don't do this voluntarily, it's going to be _put_ on me, isn't it?" he checked, and received a nod that was as good as a bow in his own kingdom.

And he could fight that, he could defend himself… temporarily. But this cell was not a well-supplied fortress, and the king would take even defensive magic as an excuse to kill him and Merlin would have to keep killing them to avoid dying – but eventually he would have to sleep and eat and so on, so if he didn't want to conquer Camelot single-handedly tonight-

Which his king would whole-heartedly approve of, and Merlin would be written into history for… The thought made him sick to his stomach, to be credited with so much death. He chose honor.

He lifted the chain to his throat, blindly bringing the ends together behind his neck. He felt the links shift and twine between his fingers, curling around each other til he couldn't tell which join had been the open one. It laid quiescent on his collarbone, tangling in the laces of his tunic, lighter than the chain bearing the crescent of his rank had been, and…

"Do you hear that?" he said.

The knight rocked his weight back, slightly. "What?"

"I don't hear anything," Merlin said, closing his eyes and concentrating. "No voices – it's quiet." And he could still feel his magic inside, welling and subsiding unperturbed, though he wouldn't test now to see if he could still reach and use it – not to have the knight bear tales of the artifact's failure. "Actually, thank you for this. For tonight, at least."

The knight was wearing a small frown of puzzlement. "You're… welcome. Ah – sleep well, Your Highness."

Now that he was considered cut off from magic, he wasn't a sorcerer, simply the hostage heir of his king. Merlin allowed himself to be amused.

"I will, thank you," he said, retreating to his bed – narrower than he was used to, but adequate and not uncomfortable, as the knight closed and locked the cell door.

And he could still tell the key was a _key_. He'd still hear it turn, in his sleep; he could still fight with his body, if not his magic – and they might underestimate his abilities, if they expected him to rely on the magic.

A little night-breeze wandered down from the apertures, and he curled up with his head on the pillow where the light from the window-square in the door didn't fall on his face, and felt the cocoon of his protection spell, laid earlier, still holding.

It was a long day – long several days in a row – and Merlin eased unworriedly into a deep and restful sleep.

…..*….. …..*….. …...*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana hated Camelot.

She lay in her new bed in her new chamber in the almost-dark – the temporary maid had left her a candle on the wash-stand across the room – lost in the sumptuous size of it, and beat her pillow and kicked her feet and sobbed stormily as long as she could.

She hated Camelot, and no one would let her leave. No one would let her do what she truly wanted, and no one would fight with her about it. They were all so dreadfully, stupidly _nice_ about taking away her choices and decisions, and controlling her life without her permission.

She hated Camelot because it was so very like Trevena – the same light stone and stairs and corridors, rugs and tapestries, windows of colored glass and an occasional plinth with a vase or sculpture or something, as though the two castles had a common builder, or at least a common planner. But they weren't her corners or her directions, they weren't her things or her people – not her servants, not Trevena's nobility or her father's knights.

"Papa, I hate it here!" she screamed into her pillow, so no one would hear and come and soothe her, expecting her to accept her helplessness – _you're an orphan, you_ _live here now_ – without railing against it. Grief for loss had been muted somewhat by a fortnight or so of tearful nights, but war had no face and no name, so it was harder for her to hate war as the thief who'd stolen her life away along with her father's.

"Papa, I hate it here," she mumbled again, more quietly but just as miserably. "I want to go home. I want to smell the sea and ride our horses along the sand and I want you to come home and Mama to wake up."

It was impossible, and she hated that, too.

"I hate the king, Papa." For a moment she stilled, cringing to imagine how her father would react to hear her speak so of his friend and beloved liege. Well, let him return to scold her, then. "He says I can think of him as my father now but he's _not_ my father he's _not_! I don't care how many dresses he says I can have or how many jewels, I hate them all! You are my papa, and I don't want any other!

"And I hate the stupid prince," she continued, determined to be thorough. "He's stupid, and I hate the way he looks at me. Acollyn was so much nicer, Papa, he always smiled and he made me laugh even if I was crying and no one here can do that and I hate crying, it hurts it hurts, Papa!... _Papa_ …"

She was too tired to kick and punch anymore; she curled into a ball and twisted the corner of the pillowcase to catch her tears, feeling exhaustion calling her to unconsciousness.

It seemed to her that her father would say, _Then make a change. Why do you hate Camelot? Because it's not Trevena, and you have no family – no one to care or listen but the king_. Her papa would add ruefully, _The king doesn't listen to anyone, anyway…_

Make a change. Do something about it.

She could make the servants admire her, and turn those sympathetic glances into more, and ultimately every single one would do as she said and give her what she wanted, without question. Ultimately every knight would bow, and obey her orders to arm and ride out or spar with each other, whatever she decided, and smile to follow her whim as at Trevena. All the nobles would smile and bow and follow when she said _follow me,_ and listen when she said, _I have an idea_. And say, _of course, my lady_.

She could make that happen, here. It would probably be easiest with the king, actually. And the prince, the only other who outranked her, now that the title of the King's Ward had been added to the title her father had bequeathed her - she'd seen the stupid look on his stupid face. It would be so easy to take the king's attention and keep it; the prince was awkward and shy and she could shut him out. He would be ignored and unimportant and he would know how she felt and see how he liked it to have everything and then lose it, and not be able to do anything about it.

Oh, and tomorrow the king said she could choose a maidservant her own age. Someone who could be a friend, and a sister when Morgana felt like having a sister. Someone who'd help Morgana with her plans – someone intelligent, then. Loving and loyal, but not stupid.

"I hate it here," she mumbled into the smothering darkness.

But at least she had ideas she could act on, to change things. And someday she'd go home again and feel close to her father again – to where he lived his life, if not to the hillside cairn where they'd buried him in death.

 _Home_ would ease the empty ache in her chest, she was sure.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur didn't believe in wishing on stars, that was for babies and idiots. Wishes never came true, and anything he didn't already have was something no one could give him anyway. As for the rest, well, hard work and patience, was what Sir Ectyr taught him. Earn it or spurn it.

But sometimes Arthur left his bed to crawl up into his window-casement and watch the stars. And sometimes he still pretended the first star – or the last – was his mother, looking down from some window in heaven, checking on him for a moment because heaven would be dismally dull if all a person ever did was watch the living, unable to connect or communicate. They must have feasts and entertainment, and go on hunts and trips to see faraway places. His mother's mother and father were dead, so he was sure they spent time together in the afterlife. And one of his mother's brothers, he'd been told. An uncle that died when he was a baby, who he never really thought of before today.

"Mother," he whispered, picking a star even though it wasn't the first one visible in the darkening night sky. Times in the past, it had been _Mama!_ and tears; no one else knew that, and he figured if his father could weep for her, then so could he. Maybe women were worth your tears.

Not _her_ , though. Not the girl he was supposed to call _lady_. The girl he was supposed to treat like a sister, though she tossed her head and ignored him.

"Mother," he whispered, because the glass of the window and all the air in the sky wouldn't stop his words reaching her, though it was impossible for him to hear any reply. "Remember when we used to talk about, what if? What if… you never went away, when I was born? And what if you and Father had more children, and I could be a big brother like Aron?"

Of course she remembered. Mother would have loved him so much, of course she would have wanted more babies, and he could have had a little brother who was a prince, too – and they'd have shared their father, and understood each other's complaints and someone else would have known what it felt like to try so hard and never be quite good enough.

But instead of a brother, he got _her_.

"Mother, you were a sister," he said slowly, realizing. "You were a good sister, weren't you?" He couldn't imagine his mother turning up her nose at his uncle, turning a cold shoulder, giving a superior smirk to make his uncle feel stupid or clumsy.

For a long time, he believed his father was incapable of affection. He'd seen the hands the knights laid on the shoulders of his companions, watched the way they tousled their sons' hair. His father just wasn't like that.

Then he thought, maybe it was because his father was king, the way no one else's father was. And kings had to be… fair and impartial. And if he wasn't king, then he could enjoy touching Arthur, smiling and laughing and taking him on rides or walks, just the two of them alone. But he was king, and that was okay, Arthur understood – it was a sort of sacrifice they both made, giving up expressions of special feelings to the required proper behavior of a royal. And he did his best to learn that, too – show no emotion that an enemy could exploit.

Today, though, had shattered what he thought he knew of his father.

He'd _smiled_ – Arthur had never seen so many smiles last so long on the king's face. He'd taken her hand and kept it, and strolled around and around the citadel, telling everyone to leave them alone, not to interrupt. And at dinner, he'd made plans to show her around the lower town and take her riding in the forest. And he'd touched her cheek and her hair and offered her delicacies from the table denied to Arthur for the sake of healthy fighting form. And he'd promised her that her education could be taken slowly – delayed or aborted, according to her feelings. And she'd have her own horses, and a servant her own age, clothes and jewelry and whatever she wanted, to make her happy. And Arthur couldn't manage to say the right things or offer the right expressions or walk the right distance and pace, or sit still enough – even if he couldn't catch a smile of approval from his father, at least he wanted to avoid the scowl of displeasure, but…

A tear escaped before he could help it, agony squeezed up from his chest with nowhere else to go.

 _Give her time_ , Gaius had said. _She's grieving, missing her father and her home. Your father is doing his best. Girls are different to raise than boys – and you're the crown prince._

Well, his father and his home were all hers, now, wasn't she happy with that.

"Uncle Tristan," he whispered. "You had a sister. Did you always love her? Did you ever feel angry at her? Was your father strict and stern? Was he happy with you and proud of you? Did he love my mother best?" But Uncle Tristan had a little brother, too, that he could play with while their father spent time with Ygraine.

Maybe it was because Morgana was innocent in her father's death, and Arthur was the reason his mother wasn't here. Maybe everyone thought Arthur didn't deserve what other sons received from their fathers, and it wasn't Morgana's fault at all, but his.

Maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe it was a weakness, to need his father's attention and approval. Or maybe he should try harder to please the king and make him proud – then even if Uther was dissatisfied, he could hope to impress Sir Ectyr, and the other knights, the other squires his age. If he was the _best_ – then even if he wasn't good _enough_ , that would be _something_ for his father, right?

"Goodnight, Uncle Tristan," he whispered. "Goodnight, Mother. If I'm to be the best, then I have to get my sleep. That's what Sir Ectyr says."

And, he didn't expect the lady-sister would spend much time in the practice yard; it was for men and fighters. And then he could work so hard that he'd forget all about her, at least for a little while.

Arthur hopped down from his window and flung himself across his bed, burrowing into his blankets in search of sleep.

* * *

 _In the late summer of Merlin's sixteenth year, he had a nightmare that frightened his mother so badly she sought out his druid tutor the next morning. Merlin remembered little of the unconscious terror it had seemed impossible to wake him from, that had lasted and lasted, but Alator was adept in probing memories and dreams. He found a link to a magical item that Merlin had hidden, years ago, and from that link was able to scry the answer for the king's heir and his mother. Their village, Ealdor, had been razed by bandits. To the bare earth in the fields, and uninhabitable rubble among the empty huts. The heir's mother had found it necessary to inform the king of Caerleon about a gold coin that never would be retrieved; Their Majesties considered it unnecessary, and though Hunith mourned former friends and neighbors, Ealdor belonged to another lifetime and soon passed out of thought into memory._

 _Especially since another event followed swiftly upon the heels of the night-terror, as if the world sought balance. A little expedition including Merlin and his mother, Queen Annis and Sir Tythan, camped near the River Rusk that bordered the enemy kingdom of Camelot, was treated to the rare sight of a unicorn among the trees on the more verdant opposite bank. A long way from Gedref, and the labyrinth that protected the mythical, magical species, they were informed by Alator upon their return to Beckon Cove. A good omen, though it remained on Camelot's side of the river, and soon moved out of sight of the party._

* * *

Arthur had set a deliberate pace for their return to Camelot, with this particular hostage and his particular complications, and it was almost enough to catch his father alone, at the end of the day. More likely to be reasonable, and thoughtful, than when he reacted to the reactions and expectations of the observant court.

Although, if Arthur had to choose one knight to be present for this report – well, it probably would have been Leon. But Sir Ectyr was not a _distant_ second.

"Arthur!" his father said instantly, lifting his head the moment Arthur showed his own at the door.

The king was still seated at his private table, used dishes and discarded platters pushed aside to peruse a parchment Sir Ectyr had probably delivered. End of the day report or tomorrow's duty schedule or something like that, probably; the knight was standing behind the king's right elbow, hands clasped behind his back and barrel-shaped body clad in chainmail yet.

"What news of Morgana?" the king added, almost without pause for breath.

"None." Arthur shook his head, latching the door closed behind him and taking up his own respectful-attentive stance at the foot of the private table. "I sent Sir Oandel to secure Evorwick, though I understand he and his men haven't yet returned. The knights with me defeated and dispersed those who had attacked Stonedown. I questioned their leader, but they knew nothing of Morgana."

Uther sighed his disappointment, shoulders slumping visibly. "Dammit. Well done, I suppose, Arthur…"

"I intend to take a contingent of fresh troops back to the southwest tomorrow to see if Sir Oandel needs any assistance or escort," Arthur added. "Evorwick is slightly further than Stonedown…" He steeled himself, unsure if his father would still consider him deserving of those few absent-minded words of praise. "There is more to report, Father."

The king's eyebrows rose, and he nodded brief permission for Arthur to continue. He opened his hand, leaning forward to deposit chain and medallion on the table within Uther' reach, but away from the remains of his dinner.

"The bandits weren't bandits. They were Caerleon's warriors, their raid sanctioned by their king. We captured-"

Uther moved the chain off the pendant, picking up the crescent-and-stars. "You captured the king?" he blurted, tension drawing face and voice tight.

"We captured his heir," Arthur corrected respectfully. "The prince of Caerleon."

"Last I heard, they intended to adopt," Uther murmured, studying the pendant piece. "What's he like, then? A formidable warrior, rabid and violent?"

"No," Arthur said – though it occurred to him, he hadn't actually fought the other prince, to know his level of skill. He carried a sword; did that mean he didn't fight with magic? "He surrendered in exchange for the lives of his remaining men, and came here as hostage for their freedom." Which still puzzled him a bit; he'd expect his knights to die to the last man, defending him, not allowing him to give up his life for theirs.

"Ah." Uther sat forward in his chair – not displeased, by his expression. Not yet. "So they know we have their prince hostage. And our villages back. Well done indeed, Arthur."

Behind him, Sir Ectyr wore a look of approval, too, which warmed him like an unexpected gift. And gave him courage.

"However…" He braced himself to hold his father's sharp glance. "The prince carried with him a book of magic. He admitted that he possesses magic, and demonstrated it in a couple of small ways, and in self-defense in camp this morning when he was startled awake."

Uther's brows drew thunderously down, emphasizing the scar on his forehead. Hands planted on the table – one palm half-covering the forgotten silver insignia – he rose to his feet, chair scraping ominously behind him.

"No one was seriously injured," Arthur added quickly. "Bruises, only. He's been cooperative-"

"Cooperative!" Uther spat. "Sorcerers don't _cooperate_! What were you _thinking_? To _let_ him surrender? To bring him _here_?"

"He was already disarmed and bound when we discovered the magic," Arthur said. Keeping calm and unemotional, was the best way of handling the king's temper and disappointment. "I don't believe his magic is a threat; he didn't use it in fighting us. And I swore that his life would be protected as long as he remained compliant. Which he has."

"So you brought a sorcerer to the heart of Camelot?" his father thundered, incredulous and angry. "Are you completely witless? They probably _planned_ -"

"No," Arthur contradicted quietly, "it was the decision of a moment, and took him by surprise. I don't believe he had any intention-"

"Even if not, how could he fail to take advantage, now?" Uther exclaimed, and glanced around the room, corners and ceiling. "Any moment, he could strike out at us!"

"He won't," Arthur argued, though he couldn't deny a cold chill. Was his father right? Was that why Caerleon hadn't seemed especially bothered to surrender and be brought to the core of a magic-hating kingdom? Magic always upset his father, Arthur knew better than most people, almost unreasonably so, and occasionally his reaction bordered on irrational. So, all the more reason for Arthur to keep his head. "If he does, he knows his life is forfeit. He's in the first cell, and it's locked with the _Caega_."

"The _Caega_ ," Uther scoffed, kicking away from the table to stalk across the room, whirl and stalk back. "Magic in Camelot results in death, every time, everyone knows this. We cannot allow him to remain, able to use his foul powers against us."

"He's Caerleon's crown prince," Arthur said, glancing at Sir Ectyr, who was silent and stern. "And I gave my word to provide protection. If anything happens to him, it could mean war just as surely as if he makes the first aggressive move. I wouldn't risk that, Father."

"You _trust_ him?" Uther flung the word like an arrow.

"Til I have reason not to," Arthur affirmed, pretending more certainty than he felt.

The king scoffed, continuing to pace and leaving no doubt of his opinion of the situation. His fists clenched and the skin of his face gradually purpled with building rage.

"The prince of Caerleon," Sir Ectyr said, husky voice quiet, "what is his name? He is boorish and stupid?"

"He wouldn't tell me his name," Arthur answered. "And no, he seems fairly clever." _Honorable_ , he couldn't say. _Funny_ , he couldn't admit. And definitely not, _good_ _company_. It was almost too bad he couldn't share the information the prince had imparted surprisingly freely – a magic-user's advice on Morgana's situation. "He's a prince," he added. "Educated and trained in diplomacy, I presume."

"Whatever passes for diplomacy in Caerleon," Sir Ectyr added wryly.

"I cannot trust magic in Camelot," Uther declared, whether he'd been listening to them or not. "Caerleon's heir or not, assurances of safety or not. Tomorrow we will open negotiations with Caerleon, but they cannot know how badly we want him neutralized. Perhaps the situation took them by surprise, but sooner or later… Magic corrupts, Arthur, you cannot trust someone who's willingly damned their will and their soul for power."

He swung away to Ectyr, and Arthur was glad, not being entirely able to hide his reaction to that word _neutralized_.

"This is what we'll do. Go to the vaults and retrieve the _Endel-Easnes_ and see to it that it's placed on the prisoner's neck."

Ectyr didn't move. His face was like granite, and something about the expression in his eyes alarmed Arthur.

"What is that, Father?" he demanded.

"An artifact given me by a witchfinder years ago," the king explained brusquely. "It'll prevent this prince of Caerleon using his magic, while he's wearing it."

"Will he allow it on?" Ectyr rasped, and Arthur caught the reason for his dread.

"My acceptance of Arthur's agreement depends on it," the king told him. "And if he refuses – take twenty crossbowmen and station them outside the cell. The condition will be enforced if he is to remain a hostage untouched."

Truth be told, Arthur would probably breathe a little easier, to have the captive enemy disarmed of this final intrinsic weapon. But did it follow that a harmless prince of Caerleon would be a safer prince of Caerleon? And would he trust them enough to make himself defenseless when he was already so vulnerable and they had several reasons to hate him to the death?

"Tell him," Arthur said to Ectyr, "that if he feels more comfortable receiving the piece from my hand, I will go in your place to repeat my assurances."

"No, Arthur," his father said immediately. Ectyr hesitated.

"Tell him," Arthur repeated. And if Ectyr returned to say the prince had requested Arthur's presence and Uther still forbid it… well, he'd have to deal with it, then.

Sir Ectyr bowed between them, and slipped out the door.

After a moment, the king began to pace again, almost feverishly. "You can't trust magic, Arthur. It's holding a viper in your hand. It will strike, unless you kill it first. Its poison can only be drawn temporarily."

"You can't kill him, Father," Arthur said. "He's not subject to our laws. And if the thought of war with Caerleon _again_ doesn't worry you, think of how the other rulers of Albion will react to hear that you did not honor the Knights' Code in dealing with a foreign royal as a surrendered hostage."

Uther shifted his shoulders irritably, like Arthur's words were an ill-fitting garment he'd shrug off if he could. "If he cooperates," he said to himself. "If… _if_."

A subtle shudder rippled up Arthur's spine and tingled to his fingertips. This was why he'd have preferred keeping _magic_ out of the situation entirely – but it hadn't really been possible. His father was a good king and an honorable man, but… Arthur had often felt it his responsibility to protect Uther from magic in more than one way. Protect him from what the threat of magic turned him into – someone who was a little less honorable and a little less wise than Camelot needed at these moments on a knife's-edge of uncertainty.

"I will draw up a schedule of guards," he said, stepping forward to catch Uther's eye. "It's probably best to supplement the men appointed to the duty with some trustworthy knights – men who won't panic and harm the hostage thoughtlessly."

The king stopped, thinking. Absorbing Arthur's words, and their meaning. Maybe even their hidden meaning – Arthur held himself from cringing with the shame that warmed his skin, even to allow this misgiving. But Uther only nodded, and gestured dismissively.

"Goodnight then, Father," Arthur added – and as the king turned to continue pacing, he let himself out of the room.

He didn't hurry, exactly – even at the late hour, there would be those to take notice and to ask questions which might spark gossip. Sir Ectyr had been gone too long for him to catch up and join him, but he was a bit surprised to meet the senior knight at the top of the stair that led down to the cells, flanked by the crossbowmen the king had ordered for just-in-case.

Ectyr stopped to face him, letting the others flow around him, chatting and murmuring greetings to Arthur, relaxed and unworried.

"He didn't fight you," Arthur said to his old trainer, somewhat surprised.

The knight's mouth twisted, and he said sourly, "He _thanked_ me."

Arthur snorted, imagining the other prince's sarcasm. "Yeah, he thinks he's funny. But otherwise, all's well?"

"All's well," Ectyr repeated.

"Good. I'll speak to you tomorrow about a supplemented rotation of guards, but for tonight, could you please find Sir Aron and have him stand duty in the cells? As Caerleon is our hostage, we are honor-bound to protect him from anyone who might take exception to having a sorcerer remain unexecuted in Camelot."

 _Anyone_.

Whether Sir Ectyr truly understood what Arthur might have been hinting at, he nodded. "Consider it done, sire."

"Thank you, Sir Ectyr – and good night."

 **A/N: So maybe all these chapters will be super-long… Happy Memorial Day, though, fellow Americans!**


	6. Sacrifices

**Chapter 6: Sacrifices**

Merlin woke to a faint itching around his neck, and a musty smell of wet straw.

He opened his eyes to see the outer wall of his cell slick with rainwater and glistening in the dreary dawn-light. His fingers found the oddly-linked chain at his neck and traced the simple symbols against his skin, over the bump of his collarbones. It was different than the itch of his missing crescent, but it roused curiosity, and in the absence of breakfast – or the freedom to seek a meal for himself, or any diversion at all – he swung his legs over the side of the cell-bed, pushing his blanket aside to test his magic against Pendragon's restraints.

He started simple, one of his earliest accomplishments of magic, calling an object to his hand without a spell. A particularly large and crisp piece of straw rose obediently in the air and-

His throat closed with the abrupt violence of a noose, shocking him into dropping the straw – and the magic. The hold on his neck immediately released, also.

Oh… _damn_ , that was unpleasant.

He dragged in a gasp of air, feeling at his throat. The links hummed contentedly quiet, a little warm maybe. Or it could be him that was warm, his entire body flushed in with the effect of momentary strangulation.

Hand on the delicate silver chain, Merlin tried again. That one piece of straw from the floor – carefully, slowly-

Again his magic was cut off, making him drop the straw as his windpipe closed and his jugular vein constricted – but there was no sensation of change under his fingers, which meant the piece didn't physically choke him, it only projected an enchantment upon his mind to make him feel like he was choking.

Interesting. But did it make a difference?

Merlin proceeded to test the result of several variations of magic – whether he could persuade himself to ignore the illusion, knowing it wasn't _real_ , whether he could break it or bypass it…

By the time the cell door opened for his breakfast-tray – two boiled eggs and a bowl of runny grain cereal, unflavored – he faced the frightened mousy servant unsteady on his feet, light-headed from repeated and prolonged bouts of oxygen deprivation. The single straightforward spell to check his food for and cleanse it from any type of poison worked… but by the time he could see clearly and breathe normally again, the food was cold.

And unappetizing. He ate for the strength it would give him, and for a pass-time, and when he was finished he was recovered enough to return to his investigation.

It seemed the amount of magic used did not matter so much as the swiftness of spell completion. He could brace himself to hold his breath and ignore the pressure at his throat to fling all the straw in the cell against the far wall at once – and the spoon from his breakfast, hard enough to stick into the stone – but lifting one corner of the blanket on his bed to pull it straight and neat brought him to his knees on the bare, damp stone of the floor, gaping like a fish around black spots in his vision.

Problematic. He rested a moment, leaning one trembling forearm against the frame of the bed as the fingers of his other hand traveled the circle of the chain, seeking the opening and passing it over again and again oblivious. So he couldn't remove it, himself.

But it was good to know that he could still punch a quick spell past the enchantment in the chain if he had to, as long as he was prepared for that noose-jerk reaction. As long as it was only a handful of spells at a time, and spaced to give him a few moments to recover. Which meant not taking on a citadel full of enemy soldiers, _ever_ , but he could save someone's life – his own, maybe – in the blink of an eye, if necessary.

It was hard to tell time of day from his cell, and the sliver of cloud-gray sky he could see above him, but Merlin was taking a break in his masochistic research, coming to more or less complete conclusions, when the cell door opened again – to admit a knight, rather than a servant. Not anyone he recognized – a young man close to thirty, with short dark hair, a square jaw, and a way of holding his lips pinched shut, like he expressed constant disapproval of the world.

"No one's come for the dirty dishes yet," Merlin said plaintively into the other's evaluating pause. "And the floor needs sweeping and the bucket needs emptying and honestly – whose job is it to make the beds around here?"

The knight sneered. "You think you have a smart mouth, Caerleon? Everyone here knows about you – magic, but not." He drew his forefinger around the base of his throat in a carelessly cruel gesture to remind Merlin of his restrictions. "Let's go. King's orders. He wants you in the courtyard."

Merlin mentally repeated three of Tythan's best curses, and gave the man a deliberate grin. "Now I know why they chose you to escort me – it's your cheerful smile and sunny disposition, isn't it? I - so appreciate that on a day like today, it always seems like - cloudy days make people grouchy, but I can tell you're not one of - those people whose mood depends on the weather, are you? No, you're – ow – clearly a better man than that."

As he spoke, the knight came into the cell, revealing two or three others waiting at the door. Discretion obviously the better part of valor that morning; he stood still and let the knight tie his hands behind his back with a length of twine.

"Do you know that thirty-one defensive and offensive spells require a gesture of the hand for beginning and intermediate levels?" he asked over his shoulder, as the man pushed him to the two steps leading to the door of the cell. " _But_ , forty-nine of them _don't_ , where a word will suffice – and expert levels of all spells can be performed without the use of the hands at all."

"What about without the use of the tongue," growled one of the helmeted guards falling into wary formation around him, prodding him to the tunnel-stair that took them upward and out.

"It depends on the length and complexity of the spell," Merlin told him, affecting ignorance of the implication of the threat. "As well as the concentration of the caster-"

"Shut up," snarled the knight, giving him a sharp push between the shoulder-blades that made him trip on the stair, almost to falling.

"See now, and I thought we were just beginning to be good friends," Merlin flung back sarcastically.

The knight sneered at him again but didn't respond, and daylight reached toward them down a short passage. Merlin stumbled again over the threshold of a small door standing open – the other men squeezed uncomfortably close to fit through in formation – and he found himself at one side of the cobblestone courtyard, slippery with drizzle and populated several deep around the walls edging the area, in spite of the damp. A handful in the rich colors and cloths of nobility, more in armor, but half of the crowd were commoners – servants or townspeople.

His heart leaped up to his throat, and he felt the chain at his neck when he swallowed.

It was way too quiet; even the precipitation seeped, instead of pattering. Every eye fixed on him with varying levels of fear, horror, fascination, anger. What the hell was going on?

Instinctively he lifted his chin to scan the nooks and crannies of the area for potential threats – and they were there, damn them. Stationed on second-floor balconies on one side, and atop the wall on the other, two dozen crossbowmen held their weapons ready and alert, but not aiming to pull trigger. Not yet.

He considered his options for defense, lightning-fast, the magic he was capable of performing effectively at the moment. If they all fired at once, he could blast the bolts away – into the crowd of innocent and unarmed people gathered to watch. Um, no.

And if they didn't all fire at once…

His sweeping gaze found two things, one then the other, almost superimposed. First, the stocks set on a knee-high platform in the side courtyard. And second, on a central balcony, a single man dressed in black, with large square buttons that matched the crown that circled the graying, receding hair on his head. Merlin stopped dead, the guards bumping into him and one another with the abruptness of his obstruction.

Uther bloody Pendragon. His enemy from his first breath.

Some sort of public spectacle was planned – humiliating or torturing him, or _baiting_ him. Pendragon's sneer was apparent even at the distance – the guards were trying to force him to walk and he wasn't – but the publicity also worked in Merlin's favor. There were lines Pendragon dared not cross with _witnesses_.

His true fear was for a too-easy opportunity for escape, which would be a trap. A single man or two slipping into his cell while he slept, or a convenient dose of belladonna or hemlock or aconite in his meal.

But they couldn't kill him here and now. And anything less than that, he could _take_ , and laugh at them while they tried to hurt or humiliate.

Merlin put a smirk on his face and sauntered forward, ignoring his guards to focus on Camelot's king. Grand way to conquer his personal childhood fear, too – put a face to a shadowy monster, and think, _old man_.

"Gods give you good morn, Your Most Gracious and Benevolent Majesty!" he called out. "I was so pleased to receive your gift last night – and then this morning to be allowed to attend such a gathering of your fine people! You flatter me!"

"Shut him up!" the king growled.

The dark-haired knight spun Merlin with a hand pinched on his shoulder – and slapped him across the mouth with the other.

Merlin couldn't help wincing.

Then he grinned at the knight and licked blood from the corner of his mouth. "Sweetheart. I had no idea you felt that way. But there's no need to be-"

The knight slapped him again – the blow caught his nose wrong and _stung_ , making his eyes tear. In the moment it took him to blink his vision clear, they hauled him stumbling over the cobblestones to the stocks. For a moment he feared they'd unlock the upper and lower sections to stuff his head and wrists into the worn openings – but the knight only cut his hands free to clamp them into a pair of iron cuffs short-chained to one of the side posts.

"People of Camelot," Pendragon declaimed. "I give you – Caerleon! Our captive, due to the daring and prowess of my son, Prince Arthur!"

Oh, yeah, him. Merlin gave up stretching the abused skin of his cheek with his tongue on the inside of his mouth to scrutinize his surroundings again, more closely. No sign of the younger Pendragon anywhere, only the elder presiding from the balcony. Still giving some pompous speech about how Camelot was better than Caerleon and Merlin was the scum of the earth twice over for having magic.

"…Representative of his people, responsible for the atrocities of Denaria-"

Atrocities? It was only a battle, not a massacre, or anything dishonorable. And Fyrien had been Camelot's decisive answer to Denaria. If anything, Merlin should be complaining about the ambush from the secret labyrinth…

"…And instead of surrendering to treat for peace, Caerleon retreated in a cowardly fashion to refuse communication and encouraging the evils of magic to run rampant and spill over our borders-"

Well, of course Thurston would have retreated rather than surrendering; he'd never admit a loss he could ignore instead. That wasn't cowardly, nor was a refusal to make further concessions in writing. Especially to a king like Pendragon, who wouldn't understand the basic nature of magic, but insisted on terrorizing his own people-

"-Which will not go unpunished!" Pendragon concluded dramatically.

Merlin almost snickered at the coincidence of his thoughts with the king's rhetoric, but kept his face expressionless. Absently he twisted his wrists to test the metal and his range of motion; he didn't think there was anything this king could say that would engage his feelings, or his temper – or even his interest.

Until a burly bearded guard stepped right up to Merlin, glowering. He began to straighten, facing the man – began to smile disarmingly – but the guard shoved him back against the stocks with one hand on Merlin's chest, raising the other fist.

"My father was killed at Denaria," he growled – and Merlin wasn't fast or free enough to dodge the unexpected fist the guard slammed into his face.

Darkness and pain. And he locked his knees into slouching against the stocks to keep upright until he could see again.

Straight up to the balcony and the king who watched him with rabid eagerness, gripping the edge of the stone balustrade to lean over – flicking a glance around the courtyard, at his people but somehow _above_ them. And Merlin realized. It was the same as the chain around his neck – a provocation. A test to make sure the restraint worked. And Merlin could strangle himself trying to use defensive magic, or be shot if he succeeded, or-

Another knight with long straight hair like two light-brown curtains on either side of his face stepped up to him. "My brother was wounded at Denaria," he said, and though his voice trembled, his eyes hated. "He lived in feverish agony for a fortnight before he died."

Merlin started to say, "I'm sorry," but the knight hit him.

Not in the face, but just below the curve of his lowest ribs on his left side. He doubled over, momentarily breathless. Hells.

Another pair of boots shuffled into view, into position. "My cousin…"

And another fist. Another pair of boots, blur of chainmail, sneer of hatred.

After three more men accused and judged and punished, Merlin risked a momentary black-out, laying a protective charm on himself – no blades of any kind could harm him, if someone decided fists weren't enough.

He pushed to his feet again to meet yet another explosion of pain in his jaw. Or cheek, or eye. And it wasn't long lines, crowding each other eager for violence. There were long moments between, before another person came to lay another death or tragedy to his account, and the pain throbbed but quieted, and he always found the strength to straighten his legs and square his shoulders, even if he leaned on the stocks and clung to the chains binding the cuffs to the structure.

Merlin couldn't have guessed how long Uther might have stood on the balcony, watching. Or how many times the man might have looked out a window to the side courtyard to gain satisfaction from Merlin's condition. Most times he could move with the force and direction of the blow to minimize the impact – though as time went on, and he spat blood with saliva before facing the next one to approach, more hit his body. Side, stomach, ribs, leaving him gasping and retching, bending double against his hands, locked in place and unable to defend himself.

Then he dove into a sour, twisted respite, choking himself into unconsciousness to lay a second deeper enchantment over his internal organs. Just in case every single person in Camelot wanted the chance to strike back against Caerleon, or magic.

When he returned to consciousness, joints trembling with weariness and muscles pulsing with pain, a lavender skirt topped by an apron embroidered in one corner with yellow daisies swayed mere inches from his face. It took him a silent year or so, but he finally lifted his eyes to her face.

A round face, sympathetic but wary at the same time, the dusky skin tone perfectly suited to the black ringlets that brushed her shoulders as she set her basket down on the platform beside and behind him.

"I'm Gwen," she said to him. "Well, Guinevere, but most people call me Gwen. I'm the physician's assistant."

Gwen. Gw… the maid Pendragon had mentioned? Younger Pendragon… Prince Arthur. And where was he?

"My lady," he mumbled around the swelling in his jaw and lips. "I… 'pologize for my appearance. Didn't have time to… wash up, and…"

"Ssh," she soothed him, but he couldn't help flinching as she reached for his face. She noticed, though she didn't meet his eyes; she focused on the different parts of his face as she went on, touching him gently but firmly. "I'm so sorry. Does this hurt a lot? You must be furious."

"Mm. I am…" he considered. "Angry with the one responsible for this." Damn Pendragon. Well, the elder, anyway. "I am not entirely faultless, either." At least not for Evorwick and Stonedown.

She withdrew, matter-of-factly wiping his blood from her fingers with a cloth in her basket. "The people of Camelot aren't really like this. I'm sorry, you must have a pretty poor opinion of us – there are good people here."

"I can believe that," he said, feeling tension relax and enjoying the momentary lull. "I'm speaking with one at the moment."

She snorted, lifting a little bottle and unwinding the thread that held a scrap of oiled leather over the mouth. "You're very smooth, for a captive covered in bruises and blood."

"They give princes lessons in being smooth," he told her, watching her wet a clean cloth with the liquid from the bottle. "It's called elocution."

Gwen returned her attention to his face – not his eyes – lifting the cloth to wipe his skin, still gently. "Does anything ever cause your lessons to fail your glib tongue, then? Pain? Or drunkenness, maybe?"

"Love," he said, holding still with an effort. Held his breath, and closed his eyes so he wouldn't think of the stinging astringent, and distracted himself with the most pleasant thought he could find. "The first time I ever tried to talk to Freya, I couldn't string a single coherent sentence together."

She retreated from him, and he blinked his eyes open to see that her lips were quirked with amusement, as she tucked that bloodied cloth away as well. "I don't think anything's fractured," she told him dryly. "Gaius persuaded Uther to let me check you weren't _dying_ out here. You're not breathing like any of your ribs are cracked, either, so…"

"Well, never let it be said that a prince of Caerleon couldn't take a beating," he quipped, shifting his weight against the stock-post. It hurt to smile, but he tried anyway.

She hooked her arm under the basket's handle in preparation to leave. "Everyone said what a prince of Caerleon, and a sorcerer, would be like. But you're not… like they said."

"I've been a disappointment," he said lightly. He was reluctant for her to leave; there were others lingering around the courtyard that he was sure would come to try to hurt him.

"Quite the contrary." She smiled at him, small and uncertain, meeting his eyes for the first time. "I've never actually… met a sorcerer."

"I'm very sorry for that," he told her honestly.

She gave him a delicate frown. "My father died of a magical disease, poisoned by a creature conjured in our water source, three years ago."

He wanted to say he was sorry again, but he didn't. Mildly he told her, "My father was killed while on the run from Uther for the magic he practiced before it was against the law. He never knew I even existed."

Her dark eyes were wide, but not because she'd taken offense. Surprise – and realization, and he could tell that he'd given her something new to think about. The other side of the coin, as it were.

"I thank you for your ministrations, Lady Gwen," he said.

"You're welcome." She gave him another small, distracted smile, and moved away.

And after she'd disappeared from his view, others came, again. Sometimes the people didn't touch him, only flung words. He wanted to thank those – women with children, some of them.

 _My father… my brother… both my sons… three cousins…_

 _Lost the baby when we heard… drowned herself because he died… starved because their father didn't…_

It swam together with the remembered words the magic-users had left in the dungeon. _Your friends – my friend – my parents – Mama – Emrys-Emrys-Emrys_ …

But the very worst, that he knew would never submerge beneath the vague dull ache associated with the day, was a red-eyed common woman with a black scarf over graying hair, and the skinny adolescent with her.

"My younger brother had magic," he said, voice quivering with venom. "The king was right to put him out of his misery. Before he ended up like _you_."

And he wanted to hit Merlin, it was clear in the tension of his body and the white of his knuckles, but the woman dropped her hand on his arm and her eyes to the cobblestones, and they went away and Merlin felt like he'd been stabbed just below his breastbone.

For a while it was a point of pride to push back to his feet, remain upright, duck and roll and avoid as much as possible. But as the sun reached its zenith out of the morning clouds and began its drying descent, Merlin only straightened when someone approached, and otherwise merely crouched against the stocks, leaning against the grip of the cuffs, drifting against the backs of his eyelids like a rowboat tied to a dock on a windy day.

Sir Munt came. Sir Leon didn't.

Merlin endured.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana had not expected _this_. Not this level of carnage.

It was only a matter of time until she and the group of Cenred's men sent to act as bandits encountered a patrol from Camelot, that was clear to anyone. But she'd expected her companions to make a show of defense, then turn tail and run, leaving her to be discovered and _rescued_.

That was not what had happened.

She had scant moments to notice for herself that the patrol seemed to include a number of injured, before Cenred's men were swarming them, over the hill and around both flanks, wild and deadly and they _slaughtered_ the patrol.

And laughed. And drank. And Morgana suspected that Cenred – or Morgause? – had put something into their celebratory cask, by the way the laughter rose shrill and their eyes rolled to the whites and how quick their hands were to their knives, and slow to set up camp that night.

Morgana made an attempt at putting up her own tent, nervous and uncertain and wondering if she shouldn't try for a genuine escape, after all. She huddled inside the skirt of her dress – the same dress she'd left Camelot wearing, for effect – the canvas walls limp and ambiguous around her. It was impossible to sleep, for the unsettling noises of the camp around, unseen beyond the material that offered little practical protection.

Well, she was meant to be draggled and frightened, wasn't she? And none of them would forget himself so far as to _touch_ her – Cenred would skin them alive, and Morgause would boil their blood, and they must know that, even drunk.

But she couldn't fall into any kind of sleep an hour or more after the last noises the men made faded, maybe long after midnight.

And therefore, woke sluggishly, with lethargic alarm at a new sort of sound. Clanging, and shouting.

She pushed herself up, the air stale and oppressive in her swath of tent fabric. It had been wet; mud seeped damply into the torn sheer overskirt of her purple gown and clung in the strands of her loosened hair. It was cold and wrong; it made her feel that whoever was in charge had lost control, and the situation was careening wildly toward-

Death. The smell of death, the cries of death – and anger – and pain-

Morgana froze in the tiny fragile space of her tent, flinching in increasing terror at the sounds outside. Were Cenred's men fighting each other? Had they encountered another band of mercenaries?

Should she spring out of her shielding canvas and flee – or wait to be discovered? She might give herself away… she might be overlooked…

The noises died away, and she could only hear the sound of her own breath – like panting, her heart racing frightened like a rabbit that could find no cover. And the comparison disgusted her; the only way to conquer fear was to face it. She would be in control of herself.

Grabbing a handful of tent canvas poorly erected, she made an exit for herself and crept out. Away from the faint noises intruding through the mist filtering between the tree-trunks that supported the shade-cover keeping the rising sun from burning off the low-lying moisture. Putting her back to one of the trunks, she gathered her skirt around the ankles of the sensible boots she'd worn for most of the year and listened.

No more fighting, but there were voices, and movement. She saw a flash of red – a knight's cloak? – and decided it was worth investigating. She had to be rescued, after all – fewer questions that way.

She hadn't taken more than five steps when she began to encounter the corpses strewn across the misty ground.

This one's bowels were spilling through a gaping wound, oozing blood and filth and torn dead-gray viscera. Wide-eyed and nauseated, she stumbled away, nearly falling over-

This one, whose neck and chest had been slashed down to bone, blood-spatter pumping over the dirt for several paces, still dripping dark from the leaves of the holly bush that didn't hide one inch of the gruesome sight. She pulled her skirt away from the gore, heading toward those red flashes in the trees – but unable to lift her eyes from the ground for fear of treading in-

A pool of vomit.

And this one, whose arm was separated from his body by several feet and a long smear of darkened blood, collected and coagulating. There was an arrow through his eye, which might have put him out of his misery.

A fly landed on the arrow as she watched.

This was worse than the close blind terror of her little tent. And if she didn't keep moving, she'd freeze in horror and drown in the blood burning into her memory-

" _Morgana_?"

The incredulous voice drew her gaze back up with the promise of clean air and sunshine, and she realized she was nearly surrounded. The red-caped patrol inspecting and investigating their fallen foe… Every single last one of Cenred's men. And why hadn't they fled, leaving the knights distracted by her discovery?

"Morgana!"

One was moving forward, and she had to force her focus to him, but-

She knew him. She'd _missed_ him, and the emotion hit as hard and sudden as a sword-blow, cleaving her heart and she gave a little cry as he swooped on her, gathering her up in an embrace so tight and thorough she couldn't breathe for a moment.

 _Arthur._

She slid her hand into the familiar locks of soft blond hair and realized he was trembling against her, as much as she was against him. As hard and cold as his armor was, there could be no doubt how he felt, that he'd missed her, too. And it was so different from the way Morgause demonstrated devotion that she couldn't help responding.

Morgause had instructed her to convince herself, the Pendragons cared about no one but themselves. That her maid only feigned concern for the sake of her job, a coveted position with uncommon benefits, that the rest of the people only admired her beauty and position and privilege. Caring was vulnerability they couldn't afford.

But this – Morgana realized that she was clinging to Arthur's neck, her nose pushed beneath his ear, breathing past the smell of blood and sweat and death to _him_ , her brother in all but name and fact.

But he hated magic. Hated _her_ , only he didn't know it. That's what Morgause said, but-

Arthur pulled back, and her heart gave a crazy beat against her ribcage, sending a spasm of pain through her chest, to see him trying to restrain his crooked smile. And his eyes were shining with unshed tears.

Tears. An ingredient she needed to gather for her sister's spell… but not those from Arthur.

She'd told Morgause, he's not like his father. And she'd assured her and Cenred, he'd see reason and agree to changes allowing magic in Camelot, but now here he was right in front of her, so much _more_ than the boy he'd been, and she was supposed to lie to him and bring down his beloved citadel and raise an army of the dead at his back.

"…All right?" he was saying.

Her eyes blurred, and she blinked them clear, despising the moment of dizzy weakness – but unable to completely deny it. She nodded impatiently – clumsily against the rough leather of his gloves that cupped her face and rubbed against her jawline with the movement.

"Yes," she said. What was the question? She was supposed to say – "I don't know… yes, I'm not hurt."

He smoothed her hair – oh how tangled it was from sleeping on the muddy ground – and folded her into a gentler embrace that clouded her vision again.

"Hells, Morgana," he whispered brokenly. "I'd just about given up on ever seeing you again. We weren't even out here searching for you this time, just tracking Oandel's party, and they were-"

Slaughtered. Yes, she remembered, she'd been there. She couldn't remember Oandel's face at this precise moment, though.

It was all ending, and it was different and _worse_ , than talking about it or thinking about it. The trauma of the past two days, shocking in the fullest sense of the word – but also the precious time she'd spent with her sister, each the meaning and purpose of the other's life, leisurely hours and exciting moments and her heart full to bursting with love and fulfillment and she knew she'd never have that again.

It was all starting – time to lie. And deceive and mislead, and hope to heaven it would be over quickly, and they'd forgive her once they understood. And if they didn't… that she could still find peace and satisfaction in her accomplishments. And in Trevena…

"What happened?" he demanded, exquisitely gentle intensity. "Why were you with – these men? Who were they? Where have you been all this time?"

"I…" She balked, not ready to lie, with her emotions so flayed by the moment. "I don't know…"

"It's all right." He shifted, tucking her under his arm, motioning the knights who'd gathered, sympathetic and curious, to give them space, to bring up the horses. She didn't realize that she'd remember his movements so well or so clearly, and swallowed a traitor sob. "It's all right. You don't have to talk about it."

 _Yet_ , she knew. There would be lots of questions, even softly spoken. Lots of curiosity, lots of sympathy – so much more than just these dozen men.

"Let's just get you _home_ ," he said, coaxing her toward his mount.

The word nearly broke her heart. She tried to hide her face, tried to control her emotions, tried to meet no one's eyes, mounting Arthur's saddle ahead of him. Tried to ignore the little details of his body behind her, his hands on the reins in front of her, his voice addressing his men from time to time as they set out at an easy walk. Part of her realized that this was perfectly behavior and demeanor for someone who'd ostensibly been abducted and held captive for over a year – but part of her rebelled against actual weakness, and that it wasn't an act. The fact that an act was necessary.

"Are you all right?" he murmured occasionally. Was she in pain? Or hungry or thirsty? Did she need to dismount for a time?

She couldn't hide behind _I-don't-know_ as well as she hid behind her muddy veil of hair. So she answered to get them back to Camelot as quickly as possible. Yes, she was fine; yes, she'd eat some of his rations or drink from his water-pouch if they kept riding. No, she was comfortable and didn't need to stop for a rest.

She couldn't ignore when he released a sigh, like happiness or ease of tension. Tightened his arms momentarily, or laid his cheek on her hair. Or shifted and began to speak a bit awkwardly about Gaius and Gwen, and what she'd missed this year – no, Gwen wasn't married – and his father.

"Arthur, please," she turned to say over her shoulder, unable to keep her spine from stiffening at the mention of Uther – guardian, tyrant. "Just – don't talk. Just let's be quiet?"

"Okay. I'm sorry – okay."

She realized that, a year ago, she would have found relief in the conversation, teasing him and making him bluster and blush as a sort of victory, and feeling like herself again. But she wasn't sure who she wanted to feel like. She was different, she was off-balance talking to anyone who wasn't her sister, anymore; she wasn't posturing for her sister's tame king, either.

Arthur was a familiar stranger. Everyone in Camelot would be the same, to a certain extent. They'd expect her to be the same, again. They'd expect her to be different, now – they'd watch her and coddle her and-

Her anxious, sleepless night betrayed her. She opened her eyes and lifted her bobbing head from a resting place on Arthur's shoulder, only realizing that she'd fallen asleep against him as they crossed the drawbridge into the courtyard.

"Good morning," Arthur said lightly in her ear, though the sun was already behind the castle walls in the west. And then, deeper and more heartfelt, "Welcome home."

Yep, everyone was staring. Morgana stayed in the saddle, watching the edges of her vision as people slowed – stared, stopped – exclaimed, and whispered. Arthur stayed in the saddle behind her, giving orders for Gwen to be fetched and for Gaius to meet them in Mogana's chambers – a little shiver rippled down her back to contemplate that private retreat she'd left behind, and all it symbolized – and for someone to bring word to his father, along with a promise for an immediate report and-

"What the hell is that? Why is he-" Arthur exclaimed, in a completely different tone, that she also remembered.

She drew herself up, twisting to follow his line of sight – to the stocks. Someone was in the stocks… or no, someone was chained to the stocks. Not terribly uncommon; why did it bother Arthur? He swung down, face hard and eyes narrowed.

"Arthur?" she said uncertainly. Someone that important, that took precedence over her?

He didn't slow, only sent her a look over his shoulder, and a raised finger as a promise that he'd return momentarily.

"My lady?" That was Gwen, appearing suddenly at the left stirrup, beaming through her tears. Her curls hung longer over the shoulders of her lavender dress and the apron might be new, but – "Let's get you down from there, and up to your room. We kept it the same for you – you'll be more comfortable – rest, and I can draw a bath, or bring you some food…"

It reminded her, oddly, of arriving in Camelot from the boring stuffy journey in the Gorlois carriage. Being offered physical comforts, when she felt lost among the familiar, and home wasn't home. Changes beyond her control, whether she liked it or not.

Would it feel like this to go back to Trevena? Or worse? Or would it be like putting on the same boots she'd worn all year – a perfect fit.

She turned to pull her right leg over the saddle, and strong hands caught her waist, easing her down to the cobblestones. Gwen flung her arms around her, trying to suppress joyful sobs; would it be up to her to console her maid, rather than the other way around? Morgana looked up to recognize that Sir Leon had helped her dismount, deep and true joy in his gray eyes, though his manner was reserved as always.

"Welcome home, m'lady."

And he'd fight in the battle she would help to start. Might be wounded, might be…

"Thank you," she said uncomfortably, and sought to shift his focus. "Who was in the stocks, as we came in?"

"The prince of Caerleon," Leon answered, like it didn't occur to him to second-guess whether or not she ought to be told, at all or at this delicate moment; it gave her a heady feeling of authority she'd forgotten in her isolation at Cenred's castle. "Hostage, but Uther decided to make an example of him today. He has magic."

Gwen was tugging her, away to the stairs and smiling the promise of coveted privacy and soothing rest that appealed to Morgana's exhausted and filthy state. But she couldn't help craning for another look at the figure at the stocks.

 _Magic._

Did this change things? This changed things.

But how?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur rode into Camelot that evening – at a smooth walk – determined to enjoy the moment of glory, the pinnacle of triumph. Not a trophy, but an accomplishment that meant more than any tournament prize; a year's worth of failure ended and righted and his very being validated. This was what he trained for - utter defeat of the enemy, rescue of the distressed Lady.

Finally, and all the sweeter for being unexpected – a benevolent trick of capricious Fate. In their favor for the first time all year, which was yet another reason not to examine the gift too closely.

Determined also to ignore the nagging of wariness, and refuse suspicions; the boots on her feet were well-worn but hers, while the familiar dress, though torn and dirty, was in surprisingly good shape if it had been her exclusive garment all this time. He focused on the reassuring details – she wasn't gaunt, undernourished or crippled from restraints; she was tired and dirty and nervous but not beaten or _abused_. Upset, but not _broken_.

So he refused to allow questions to raise themselves – this group of inept bandits had successfully abducted and held her for a year, leaving no single clue in all that time? – there was time enough for that later. Or maybe never; Uther was often inclined to accept an inexplicable piece of good luck like this for exactly that – luck, and nothing more.

Reaching the courtyard, however, he noticed something that completely diverted his attention from the rescued friend riding in front of him on his horse, and ruined the moment of basking in shared satisfaction as the citadel recognized their restored Lady.

But, by the stocks. An indistinct figure who was not paying attention to the arrival of his fortunate company for being chained and huddled in mute misery – but what caught Arthur's attention was the Caerleon indigo.

"What the hell is that?" Arthur demanded of no one in particular, forgetting to moderate his tone for Morgana's injured sensitivities. "Why is he-"

Morgana stiffened in response to his careless words, and he knew it wasn't fair to involve her in this particular political knot, the very moment of her return. He swung his leg over the horse's hindquarters, kicking his boot free and dropping to the cobblestones. Gwen was flying down the stairs toward them, and Leon had nearly reached Arthur's mount also; Morgana would be in good hands. He gave her a wordless promise to rejoin her as swiftly as possible with a look and a gesture, then stalked toward the stocks.

Sir Carles was in his way, gawking toward the unexpected arrivals, and Arthur grabbed him by the collar of his chainmail, dragging him a few involuntary steps to gain his attention.

"Caerleon's in the stocks?" he growled his displeasure.

"King's orders," Sir Carles responded, after a second's pause to re-orient his focus.

"How long?" Down from the vantage point of his horse's saddle, he couldn't see the indigo-clad figure clearly.

"All day? His Majesty allowed those with a grudge to express their temper upon him as representative."

"A grudge?" Arthur said incredulously.

"Against the kingdom of Caerleon, or against magic." Sir Carles blinked like he was mildly surprised by Arthur's reaction.

"He was to be well-treated if he behaved himself," Arthur snarled, furious that the brilliance of his day and their achievement was to be tarnished with this, another instance of failure to protect someone he'd sworn to. "Did he use magic at all? Even to defend himself?"

"Well, no, sire. He's wearing that chain around his neck that stops the magic, isn't he?"

Arthur released Sir Carles with a light shove; it wasn't this knight he was angry with. But it wasn't the first time his father had overruled him where his honor was concerned, and it infuriated him to be helpless to avoid being carelessly shamed.

Caerleon was chained by the wrists to the post of the stocks, making it more awkward for him to try to sit on the platform, contorted and hanging off, or drape himself over the heavy horizontal planks forming the apparatus, than to crouch in place, not quite able to sit on the ground. His hands wrapped the chains attaching cuffs to post, hanging on rather than simply hanging, but he didn't lift his head at Arthur's approach.

There were flecks of blood on the cobblestones, and darker stains of the same on the sleeves of his tunic; the hair that hung over his face as his head drooped wearily between his elbows, clumped and curled to points with blood also. The fabric of the tunic was pulled tight around his ribs due to the position, and it was only mildly reassuring to see that his breathing was deep and even, if slightly quickened.

And the silver line of the restrictive chain around his neck was visible just above his collar.

"Well, what happened to you?" Arthur said aloud, partly to test the other prince's mental and physical state by his reaction.

His head came up immediately, and one eye glinted at Arthur, before his hands tightened around the chains and he pulled himself with groaning sluggishness to his full height, swaying slightly as he regarded Arthur.

Who had a hard time covering his consternation. Blood crusted the swollen bruises over half the other prince's face – left eye shut, lips split in three places, trickle over smear down from his nose as if he'd given up wiping it before it stopped bleeding. And the way he was standing, half-hunched and defiant, meant the brutality had not been limited to his face.

Damn it to bloody _hell_.

"I wondered when – you would come," Caerleon said, slurring through pain and swelling. "Saved the best for last, then? Take your shot."

Arthur felt sick at the thought that the other prince would believe him involved – and to the point of joining in.

"I wasn't at Denaria, or Fyrien," he said. Without looking away, he signaled for the guard on duty. A prisoner in the stocks was never left unattended; the man responsible was allowed the shade of the side gallery, company and conversation and movement about the courtyard, but with Arthur there, it was certain he'd be attentive to order-signals.

"Mm. Neither was I."

"Is it bad?" Arthur asked softly, making no excuses. "How do you feel?"

A small noise that might have been a sardonic snort on any other day. "Feel like I – just won a wrestling – match. Just another – day of training – for us."

Arthur huffed, darkly amused – but at the same time glad the younger man hadn't abandoned his condescending sarcasm for sullen silence. "Then you're not doing it properly in Caerleon," he said. "One of these days you can join us and see how a knight of Camelot is trained."

"I'll take notes," Caerleon promised – and swayed again. Arthur grabbed his elbow to steady him, and he dropped his head to stare at Arthur's hand, uncomprehending. "Bring all your secrets back to my king."

The guard arrived at a trot, slightly out of breath. "My lord?"

"Unlock him. Then take him to Gaius' chambers." Arthur remembered that the physician would be occupied elsewhere for a while. "You can guard him there until Gaius can see to him – then follow whatever orders the physician has regarding him. And, let all the men know, everyone is to meet me on the training field at dawn, or they better have a damn good reason why they're not."

"Yes, my lord." He reached between them to unlock the prince's chains.

Caerleon held Arthur's gaze with his one good eye, studying him while the guard freed him from the cuffs. Arthur found himself breaking that contact of mixed wonder and suspicion, to watch for further bruising and chafing on the unprotected wrists.

"I wonder if I should thank you," the prince said, and the sarcasm was mild.

"I apologize for your treatment today," Arthur said only. "I was absent from the citadel." And it wouldn't be honorable to cast all the blame on another, to keep whatever trust and good-will of his hostage that he'd managed to build. And maybe saying even that much, was too much.

"Then I won't hold this against you," Caerleon said after a moment. His voice was low and clear, honest and open.

Arthur nodded, gratitude and apology, and watched a moment longer as the guard led the battered young prince away – moving stiffly and slow, but with obvious pride.

Spinning on his heel to resume his focus on the recovered Lady, he was struck by her attitude. Nearly at the top of the stairs, escorted gently and solicitously by Gwen and Leon – and others hovering nearby – her head was turned to visually follow the prince of Caerleon, who didn't seem to have noticed her presence at all. It reminded him immediately of how adamant she'd been about rescuing the druid boy from his fate – another imprisoned magic-user. And actually, they didn't look dissimilar.

Damn. He was going to have to warn her, no rescue could be contemplated, much less attempted, in this case. Although, his spirits lifted slightly to consider the complication at all; he was happy she was _here_ to make an issue of it at all.

Unless she had changed far more than he feared.

 **A/N: Surgery in a month. Til then, I hobble on a brace – and post-surgery, can look forward to driving restrictions and physical therapy til October. My knee doesn't hurt that much, but the rest of me is** _ **sore**_ **from compensating as I hobble… But thanks everyone for your get-well wishes! (If I'm less active physically this summer, maybe I'll be more active** _ **creatively**_ **…)**


	7. Sanctuary

**Chapter 7: Sanctuary**

Morgana watched the young stranger – prince of Caerleon! magic! – turn from a brief but not hostile conversation with Arthur, and move stiffly toward an opposite corner of the courtyard. He was more slender than Arthur, with a mop of Caerleon-shaggy black hair, though his chin wasn't darkened by a beard – how young a boy, then, for all his height?

And _magic_?

"How did he come to be hostage?" she asked, turning her distracted gaze from Gwen on her left, to Sir Leon.

"They were raiding along the border," Leon answered. "Bandits, we thought. But he surrendered to Arthur in exchange for life and freedom for his men."

"Surrendered to Arthur?" she exclaimed in disbelief. Eyes down to climb the last stairs without stumbling, and the captive prince was no longer in sight when she lifted her head to look for him. But the path her feet followed, into the citadel and up and around to her chamber were familiar; she was inattentive to minor details that had changed. "And he has magic?"

"He was unhorsed by surprise, and Arthur held a dagger to his throat," Leon explained with a wry note in his voice; she wondered if that was new, or if she had forgotten, or just hadn't ever noticed. "I wonder if we were lucky he didn't have a chance to wield magic against us, or if he isn't very good at it, or can't."

Good question. Morgana couldn't imagine anyone holding a knife to her sister's throat and gaining her surrender.

"So why was he in the stocks?" she demanded. "Isn't Uther going to ransom him? How long has he been here? Do we know his-"

"Morgana," Arthur said from behind them, sounding out of breath but also as if he frowned upon her questions.

Gwen seemed already to have noticed the prince's presence; Morgana and Leon turned as Arthur took the last two steps at once to reach them. It struck her that Arthur looked exhausted and unhappy – that his face was thinner and his eyes were older than she remembered. She realized what his year must have been like; the pang of guilt was entirely unexpected and unwelcome.

He took her gently by the shoulders, and smiled with an effort. "You don't have to do this."

"Do what?" she said, cross because… _what_?

"You don't have to think about someone else," he said – and dismissed Leon with a look and a movement of his head; Leon of course obeyed. "You don't have to distract yourself by focusing on someone else. It's all right to be anxious-"

"I'm not anxious," she contradicted, wanting it to be true and hating that she actually was drawing strength and comfort from the warmth of his hands.

"Upset, then." His brows drew down and his smile tilted wryly. "It's been a long time, for all of us. You're home now, but you don't have to rush settling back in, if it doesn't feel right. It might never be perfect-"

She couldn't help snorting.

"It might never be what it was," he continued, correcting himself. "But it'll get better. Just have patience."

She didn't want life in Camelot to be what it was – fearful and miserable. And patience was never a trait she'd seen any benefit in cultivating. Maybe a bit for the magic – some spells took time to master, Morgause said, concentration and practice.

"I'm fine," she insisted – and the look Arthur and Gwen shared irritated her. "I only thought – that prince with magic-"

Morgause never mentioned him. Did she know? Wouldn't it have been better, or easier, to ally with Caerleon, than with Cenred, who controlled barely half his territory, and whose men were no more loyal than mercenaries?

"We can talk about him later," Arthur soothed, turning her unwilling toward the last little stair that led to her chamber. Gwen took her elbow to coax her as well. "Gaius is on his way."

Which thought made her more uncomfortable than relieved. The old physician was sharp and keen, but could also be completely unreadable; she considered that he would be the hardest to convince, but also the least likely to say something of any suspicions to anyone else.

"I'll draw you a bath," Gwen offered.

Which sounded heavenly.

"And get you a tray of your favorites from the kitchen," her former maid added. "Of course His Majesty will want to-"

Oh, saints above and devils below. Not tonight. She'd already been through enough.

She let her head droop, and stumbled on the first stair. "I should be – more presentable," she murmured. "To speak to – the king." She thought she managed a credible sob – was it too much?

"That can wait," Arthur said immediately. "I can speak to him, and you can just rest, tonight. There will be plenty of time for talking, in the morning. All right?"

"All right," she said wearily, bracing herself on both stone handrails to take another step.

"I'll take good care of her, Arthur," she heard Gwen say softly behind her.

Well! _Arthur_.

"I know – thank you, Guinevere. If you need anything, send for me." Morgana didn't turn to acknowledge Arthur's added, "It's good to have you home, Morgana."

And she had arrived at her own chamber door. Familiar – remembered – different than the one that had become hers in Cenred's castle.

She pushed it open, hearing Gwen behind her, and choosing to ignore the other girl for now. Gwen was still the sort of intuitive and sympathetic servant who could read her moods – was she glad of that reminder, or resentful? – and didn't prattle, letting her wander about the room, rediscovering the belongings she'd been prepared to discard permanently.

But not herself. Had she ever been herself, in this room? Frightened of her gift, forcing herself to secrecy rather than defiance. She'd changed so much this year – there had been no mementos in her other room, nothing without specific and ordinary use. But here – the jewel cask filled with gifts from Uther. Her mother's gems were kept at Trevena, under lock and key, and Morgause had rejected the idea of sharing them out – she had no need or want of such reminders. Morgana had worn several meaningless pieces over the course of the year, returned to Morgause; she gripped the silver cuff at her wrist as the lone exception.

"They let you keep that?" Gwen's voice broke the stillness as though she'd blurted the question in surprise.

Morgana considered ignoring it, too. Instead she flashed a smile and said, "Yes. I don't know why, though…"

Gwen nodded through puzzlement, and Morgana continued around the room. Patterns in the embroidered curtains that she had imagined animals and faces in, for childhood friends and confidantes. Ribbons and combs and clips for her hair, in this drawer. Lotions and powders and scents, maybe all spoiled by now; she hadn't used any while she'd been gone, and wasn't sure she wanted to bother, anymore. She was so much more than the pretty shell Camelot knew her as – but then again, if she returned to that, maybe no one would think to look or question deeper.

She avoided the mirror, though. Of course she looked a sight.

The gowns in the wardrobe, all calculated to draw attention. Her writing desk and a journal which did not contain her inmost thoughts, but only flippant observations. The ribbon-tied packet of her sketches and paintings, kept as a pastime approved of for a young lady, not through any true pleasure derived – except for the one hidden portrait of the boy in Trevena she could not forget. Pages of copied poetry that had caught her fancy when she was younger, and struggling to accept femininity – more changes in her life and body that she did not choose, but could not prevent. The inkwell given her by Lord Geoffrey when she was no longer his pupil, and the quill. There were a few books lying around the room which had not been returned to his care, by Gwen and while she'd been gone.

Which meant, Gwen had never given up hope for her return, whatever they thought of her departure.

She wondered what Gwen's room looked like. Whether she had one, in that little place beside the forge, or shared with her brother, or what. She remembered numerous conversations they'd had on brothers, and how to handle them.

And there was the little carved turtle paper-weight Arthur had made for her thirteenth birthday. He'd said – condescendingly – it was because he didn't want her to feel bad that she couldn't beat him in a sword-match anymore, but she believed it had taken longer than that single day to make, and he'd meant to give it to her anyway, sparring win or loss.

That was Arthur. Covering his feelings with bullying arrogance…

Which was not so entirely different than what she'd learned to do this year, was it. Morgause had no time for expressions of affection, so Morgana had tried not to show the depth of her feeling, pleasing her sister, being what she expected and wanted – cool and imperious and self-contained.

Just as Arthur had always tried to be what his father wanted.

Morgana spread her fingertips around the edges of the rough wooden shell. And what if he decided that his father was right, as she'd realized Morgause was right about so many things? What if he didn't choose to be a better man than his father, but the same one?

"Your bath is ready, m'lady," Gwen said. "I've added some of the salts and oils you always liked – we can do your hair first…"

Morgana sighed, and put down the turtle. She coveted a long soak in a warm bath, but already missed the ease and efficiency of cleanliness at the snap of a magic finger.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur relished the weight of the sword in his hand, the weight of his armor on his shoulders and arms, the stiff greaves protecting his legs from the awkward swipes of the other squires. He loved the heat of the sun on his helm, dampening his tunic beneath the gambeson, plastering his hair to his skull and trickling down his neck and squishing between his fingers inside his gloves.

He loved fighting the physical elements in addition to his opponent – it was like fighting himself and coming out the winner. Getting better, every time, overcoming everything the world could throw at him.

He loved sun and heat better than numbing cold or rain, even though the resulting mud was good. Mud made his manservant Theow scowl and sigh, and it wasn't anything he could scold Arthur for.

"Well done, Highness," Sir Ectyr said approvingly, stepping back and straightening. He let his blade drop, and knocked up the visor on his helm to see Arthur more clearly. "Bearing a shield in the off hand is very different from wielding an anelace as a secondary weapon, but as your chainmail will stop any bladed weapon from piercing your body, your concern will be for the force of the blow, and the weight of a blunter weapon can break bones or damage internal organs. Your shield will be necessary in facing-"

Paying attention to his trainer was increasingly difficult in the rising murmur from the rest of the field, and when Owain let out his familiar bray of laughter swiftly cut off by a companion or older knight, Arthur couldn't help turning to see what the commotion was about.

 _Oh_ – _hells_ , he swore silently – the only way he dared swear, yet.

 _Her_.

Twice last week she'd come to the training field, wearing new dresses bought and commissioned by his father - and he'd overheard Theow joke that the seamstresses were stressed over the demand for speed - and parading up and down for attention. The men ignored her, but the other squires _looked_ , and it frustrated Arthur, who was trying to ignore her but couldn't honorably take advantage of their inattentive moments.

This week… double hells.

She was wearing a pair of dark trousers never cut or sewn for a boy, and a dark red tunic – just too purple to be true Camelot crimson – belted around her waist and covering her hips, her long dark curls in a braid that was just as girly. Arthur almost didn't notice the quiet girl behind her, with curly black hair and a drab brown dress under an apron. The blacksmith's daughter, chosen to be her maid and companion, and he didn't remember her name.

His father, the king, in black and crown and heavy medallions, stood next to her, holding a slender anelace – which would fit her hand the way a sword would fit the hand of a grown man. He was beaming proudly, and gesturing for the knights to accede them space. Then the king reversed his grip on the anelace to hand it to Morgana, who grasped it confidently, head up and booted feet apart. And clearly the king was explaining the basic principles of stance and grip to her.

He never looked toward Arthur. He'd never come with Arthur to the field, he only ordered Arthur to come, and Sir Ectyr met him and introduced himself and explained their course of training. If Uther was present at all, it was to appear silently and disapprovingly at Arthur's most awkward moments.

Her form was all wrong. Her wrist was weak and her left flank wide open… Uther threw back his head to laugh, and clapped his hands to applaud her.

Arthur turned blindly back to Sir Ectyr, the sun an abrupt enemy that stabbed his eyes and made them bleed tears. The sword was unbalanced, the armor chafing and sharp-edged and wrong-sized.

"Let's practice the double-handed forms," Sir Ectyr proposed. "Face this way, and clear your mind, and make your motions smooth and controlled, sure and strong. Ready? Four… two… six… ten… good. Good, Highness. Let's continue…"

His limbs were wooden and his joints creaked, and he obeyed now from duty, rather than pleasure.

Maybe he hadn't earned the joy, the triumph of being the best and owning the field, yet. Maybe he didn't deserve to enjoy this part or any part of learning to sacrifice every part of himself for his kingdom, his people.

Maybe if he kept ignoring her and pretending he didn't care, she wouldn't keep trying so hard to gain his attention and crush his feelings.

* * *

 _In the early spring of Arthur's twenty-first year, a treasure-tomb was discovered, identified as that of the ancient sorcerer, Cornelius Sigan. After the deaths of six workers attempting to plunder the wealth therein, the king was persuaded to seal and bury the tomb again. The location was kept confidential – a measure that was mostly unnecessary, since grave-robbers were adequately deterred by the tales of death._

 _Two weeks later, word was brought that King Odin had hired an assassin to kill Prince Arthur. King Uther ordered that patrols be sent to intercept the man before he reached Camelot. Two patrols were devastated by a crossbowman hidden in the trees before a ruse proposed by Arthur was undertaken – the assassin chose to die rather than be captured, but so also did the knight impersonating the prince. In tribute to the loyalty and nobility of the fallen, Arthur withdrew from the joust that was held only days later, and seemed satisfied to crown Sir Alynor as the victor._

* * *

Arthur did not particularly like his father's chamber. He never anticipated what it would be like when he was king and expected to inhabit the rooms, whether he would change anything, and what. When he came to report, he stayed just inside the door of the main room. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone or even glanced inside his father's bedroom; it was the king's private sanctum, never his, even as a child.

Uther had been bathing – his hair was still wet when he emerged, alight with expectations, in his shirtsleeves, bare-headed and unadorned.

"Is it true?" he demanded. "You found her? She's back?"

Arthur felt the shade of an old conflict. His own pleasure and satisfaction in her return dimmed slightly in the harsh light of his father's differing affections. More than once this year Uther had refused the council's gentle suggestion that maybe the Lady was lost, and their resources better conserved, or spent elsewhere, than on everlasting but ultimately fruitless searches. But a son of his blood, his beloved wife's only child and the heir to his throne, could be used, and risked, again and again and again…

At least this time he wasn't reporting failure.

"Yes, father," he said, allowing his smile to show small and collected. "We've found Lady Morgana and returned her to Camelot. She is in her chambers as we speak, resting and recovering from her ordeal. Her maid is with her, and Gaius will-"

"How is she?" the king interrupted eagerly. "Is she all right? She's not hurt?"

How could she possibly be all right? More than a year she'd been alone among enemies with none to help protect her, to encourage her and keep her spirits up, as her friends in Camelot had done for one another. It had been so very long, was there ever a point where she'd give up hoping for release and rescue, accepting a new lot in life, even saying and doing things she didn't mean, in order to survive or avoid the expressed displeasure of those holding her captive?

"She seems well enough," he said cautiously. "Not injured, so far as I could tell."

"And what of her captors?" The king found his own jacket over the back of his chair; the current servant had presumably remained in the other room, busy with tidying after the bath, or other tasks. Uther didn't retain any of his personal servants long, changing them and their duties often so no familiarity was achieved.

"All dead. We discovered Sir Oandel's patrol had been ambushed and slaughtered, early this morning, and signs led us to the camp of-"

"Mercenaries?" Uther said brusquely, shrugging into the jacket and looking about for the other ornaments he habitually wore. "Bandits? Odin's men, perhaps?"

"Hard to say," Arthur temporized. "They fought to the death… which is strange in itself… Father, I would say she's been well cared for, most of the year, but why would men like that-"

"We should be thankful, if that is the case," Uther interrupted, settling the chains of his medallions around his neck. Arthur couldn't help but think of the silver twinkle above Caerleon's collar.

"Of course, but I also wonder how such low, ignorant men were able to evade our patrols – all our knights and our planning, for so long," Arthur said. His father snorted, an unspoken and derisive commentary on his repeated failures. Arthur could not accept it was merely because he was more inept as a leader than the bandits they'd fought. "And then to attack – but to fall so quickly, it doesn't-"

"Arthur." His father faced him, hands on his shoulders as he'd gripped Morgana only a short time ago. "Now is not the time for such worries, anymore – now is the time to celebrate!"

He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. "Yes, Father. The remaining two extended patrols should be back tomorrow, but a message will need to be sent to Sir Acollyn in the north, and-"

"Yes, yes." His father set him to the side, heading for the door. Arthur understood his impatience, but also knew that Gaius would allow no interruptions – and he was fairly certain the consensus would be, no visitors til the morrow. And the other subject he wished to debate, would not wait.

"I wish to address another matter with you, Sire." Arthur cleared his throat and wet his lips.

The king paused with his hand on the latch of the door, turned to face him and straightened at Arthur's use of a deferential-authoritative tone. "What is it?"

"The matter concerns a man who has impugned my honor. It has happened before – though I don't wish to address other instances, I do wish the occurrences to cease."

"So formal," his father chuckled, and Arthur tightened his fingers into fists. "Why haven't you handled it yourself? If it's a commoner, punish him. If it's a knight, challenge him – and if it's a noble, charge him before the court."

"Sire," Arthur uttered, as calmly as he could. "It is you."

After a split second of shock, Uther's face hardened. "I beg your pardon."

 _And well you should_. Arthur bit his lip and lifted his chin – confidence, not arrogance. "I pledged the prince of Caerleon his safety, and in my absence yesterday, he was severely beaten and the _participation_ of the _commoners_ was encouraged by-"

"Severely," Uther scoffed. "Arthur, what you need to understand about that, about the nature of magic is-"

"My word of honor is _meaningless_ ," Arthur interrupted, feeling a tremor of contained emotion. "If you won't _let me keep it_!"

Uther drew back slightly, irritation sobering to seriousness as he studied Arthur. Then he gave a grave little bow of his head. "You're right," he said. "There is nothing more sacred than a vow, and it should be kept, once given. I will warn you, however, not to give it so lightly to our enemies."

Arthur ground his teeth, delicately and unobtrusively.

"I might also add, now that we are certain the sorcerer is incapable of using his magic against us, you need fear no further impugning of your honor where he is concerned, unless the issue originates with him."

He supposed it was the best he was going to get. "What about the question of ransoming him to his king?"

"We'll write it tomorrow," the king said dismissively – then abruptly changed his mind, speaking as if he were granting Arthur a favor. "You may write it, if you wish, and I will approve it before it is sent by messenger. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make sure of my – my ward's safety and security."

"Of course." Arthur bowed his head, and made to follow his father from his chamber to the hall. Even if it was doubtful Gaius would permit visitors to the patient, he had no desire to linger in these rooms when he had no business there, any longer.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin slammed through the door of his chamber, using magic to rip through the last stubbornly tangled knots of his stupid heavy armor. When it finally gave, he slung the ring-studded breastplate clear across the room with a yell that expressed but didn't alleviate the snarl of hot emotion threatening to burst his ribcage from inside.

It didn't help much. And, with a different sort of cry, he scrambled to his knees beside the chamber pot, retching unhappiness and shame and breakfast, his body rebelling as much as his spirit.

"Merlin?" His mother's voice sounded from the open doorway between their rooms.

He used one of Tythan's curses – silently – and spat stringy saliva down to the mess at the bottom of the chamber pot, trying to shove the evidence of his inadequacy out of view before she-

"Merlin – are you ill?"

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and put one hand on the mattress of his bed above him, intending to use it to stand, but when it depressed with her weight, and her hand combed onto his hair to rest cool and comforting against his scalp, he simply remained in his crouch, closing his eyes and leaning against her knee.

"Merlin," she repeated softly, when he didn't answer her. "Can I get you anything?"

He huffed a bitter chuckle. Maybe a new heir for the king and queen. Or a new body for the heir they chose.

"Do you ever think about – going back?" he said, quietly hoarse. His throat hurt from yelling – and from vomiting – and his eyes pricked a threat of unmanly tears.

"To Ealdor?" She hummed noncommittally. "Do you?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

His memories of Ealdor were vague; rather than missing anyone, he thought he preferred the shy, somewhat awestruck avoidance of the commoners' children here, and the distracted respect of the adults. If only he wasn't required to do more than help his mother with chores in Beckon Cove, and sometimes slip away to a private retreat in the forest… but there wasn't any forests for a couple of leagues around. And he was never to venture outside the palisades unescorted. He was to learn – which was all right – but he was also to _fight_.

"I'm not good enough," he muttered. "I'm skinny and clumsy and weak." And Tythan hollered, and the way the rest of the warriors on the field looked at him from the corners of their eyes made his heart squeeze with shame and misery, like clutching a handful of crumbling ash.

She said nothing, only rubbed his hair gently between her fingers, and the confusion he despised feeling flooded through him again. At once he wanted to relax into the affectionate and undemanding touch of his mother, and reject it as babyish and unnecessary. And he was angry at himself for the involuntary inconsistency and at his mother for provoking it.

He pushed away from the bed to his feet, stalking blindly toward the room's open area. Blinking furiously to keep his eyes dry, he tugged at the ties of his vambraces.

"I hate training," he told her. "Every part of me _hurts_." He hurled one stiff leather cuff at the wall, where it slapped and flopped to the floor. "And that makes me slower and weaker. And Alator says, no magic while I'm fighting, and the king says, learn to fight with magic, and –" he threw the second glove toward the door, before he realized there was someone else standing there, a willow-strong female figure in a red-orange gown, the words already leaving his mouth. "They're all so _disappointed_!"

"I'm not," the queen said, not even flinching at the vambrace clattering to the ground at her feet. She glanced down at it. "In my opinion you're doing well for your first week with a weapon in your hand."

He faced her clasping his hands behind him, keeping his eyes down – partly because he was embarrassed at his behavior.

"I know I never was a boy," Annis continued dryly, entering the room and exchanging a glance with his mother. "But I don't imagine growing up is ever easy for anyone – and now you're a prince, the heir of a kingdom. Do you think Thurston is grouchy sometimes because he loves his position and all the worries and stresses that come with it?"

Merlin's mouth twitched on its own, trying to grin, but he held it back. Grouchy _sometimes_? Although, he didn't want to be grouchy like the king, and part of him was sorry that he couldn't be cheerful and perfectly satisfy expectations.

Part of him wanted to burn those expectations and run away to the wind.

Which wouldn't resolve anything, and couldn't be done anyway, and he was a little angry about that.

"Don't let them win," Annis said to him firmly. "Don't let any of them win. Where you start from doesn't matter as much as your improvement and your willingness to try harder and to change, do you see? I've watched you this week – Tythan says he's going to try a practice sword of wood next week, and it should prove easier for you to handle. One of the things I love best about you…" she crossed to him, lifting his chin to meet her eyes, "is your determination."

He flicked his eyes to his mother, still seated on the bed, and she smiled as if to confirm, yes he was a determined person.

"Refuse to stay discouraged," Annis told him. "Use the frustration to focus the strength you have, and build it. And always remember, the quality of your heart and mind is more important than sheer dumb brawn. Yes?"

Merlin couldn't stop the smile, though it wasn't wide and it didn't feel happy. He knew she was right – but she was a woman after all, and on the field of men he still had to prove himself in order to lead.

"Learn the sword, Merlin," his mother added quietly – shocking him into lifting his head and staring at her. He thought she sympathized with his aversion for this part of his education. "After what happened with your father… I would prefer my son able to defend himself by any means necessary."

"Especially if it is not your destiny to be a peasant farmer," the queen added.

He nodded weary agreement, gesturing to lift his armor from various places around the room, levitating them to their place on the stand by the wardrobe. His mother and the queen watched, and then Annis said, "Now about your history lesson – unless you're too sore?"

"No'm," he said, giving her a more genuine grin. Next to his own bedchamber and his lessons in Alator's chamber, he preferred the queen's office as a place where his mind and heart and spirit could quiet and focus and learn.

His mother said _I love you_ with a look as he followed the queen, and he responded, _I'm sorry._

 _I know, it's all right_ – and then he was out in the hall walking with Annis.

"And don't forget that horse," Annis added, glancing aside at him. "Although I sometimes wonder, when you earn that gift of respect from Thurston, if you will use it to ride away from us."

He didn't understand why she never seemed to have the doubts that he did, or to suffer the disappointment the king carried. But he responded from his heart, "If I ever do, I will always be sure to ride back."

In spite of his reluctance for the process and his uncertainty for the end result, he knew his duty, and he wouldn't turn back. He'd chosen his destiny, even if he sometimes resented how hard it was to fit his spirit into its strictures.

The queen bumped his shoulder as they walked alongside each other, lightly teasing. "Eventually?"

Feeling his good humor restored, he agreed, "Eventually."

* * *

 _In the autumn of Arthur's twentieth year, the maid Guinevere approached him on behalf of her brother, one of the blacksmiths in the lower town after the death of their father earlier that year. It seemed that he had been accosted and threatened by a notorious renegade sorcerer, to provide certain services in conjunction with spellwork the sorcerer wanted to perform. Bribery was involved, and there was a fear that guilt by association would be assumed, even though Elyan the blacksmith had refused the offer. Arthur agreed that they should cooperate officially – and the renegade sorcerer was caught when next he sought contact with the blacksmith, and killed in the ensuing fight._

 _It lacked a week yet til the first snows when Camelot was faced with an open daytime threat, not a human but a monster whose bite was fatal, with a snake's head and a leopard's body; Sir Bedivere was only the first to fall. Arthur was set to lead a patrol to kill it, but Uther was persuaded dually by Gaius' warnings of the creature's imperviousness to ordinary weaponry, and by Lady Morgana's insistence that Arthur not be allowed to needlessly sacrifice himself. Six knights and nine commoners were lost to the creature's depredations til King Uther declared the Forest of Essetir, where the creature made its lair, forbidden ground. As that forest was also inhabited by insidious nests of serkets, his citizens found it easy to obey._

* * *

Merlin hadn't expected to fall asleep in the chamber of Gaius, the court physician of Camelot. Aside from acute physical discomfort that assailed him anew with every move, he was interested to meet this old man, another whose name was familiar to him since childhood, but for reasons very different to Uther.

But it was warm and quiet in the room. The guard from the courtyard made himself comfortable on a stool in the corner; he seemed disinclined to conversation, which suited Merlin also. Knowing better from his lessons with Alator than to touch anything on the physician's work-spaces, he wandered once around the room, hobbling stiffly, to inspect equipment and herbal supplies, and books.

All the books. There were even shelves built high onto the walls, with an enclosed walkway accessing them. Merlin grinned to himself – it hurt his face a little - recognizing that several medicinal ingredients also had magical properties, imagining the interaction between his tutor and the man who inhabited these rooms.

The scents were myriad, some familiar and some strange, and he chose the padded patients' bed over the bench by the table and the armchair behind the desk to rest his bruised and aching muscles. The guard on the stool in the corner had his chin to his chest and might have been staring at Merlin, or snoring. The flat pillow looked inviting, and when he saw there was a book underneath it, he leaned to pull it out curiously – and then didn't bother straightening, only propped himself up on his elbow to turn the pages of the book resting against his ribs.

It was a Bestiary, and someone – Gaius? – had made notes at the edge of some of the pages. Like, _Being made of earth and water, the afanc requires air and fire to conquer._ Or, _A griffin cannot be killed with mortal weapons, but can be caught with means as simple as fishing nets, if properly and judiciously employed._

 _Wraiths may be captured in the same way._

 _The bite of the Questing Beast is fatal, but a scratch from a talon is also. No effective way of capturing it has been determined._

 _Troll magic is strong, but they are susceptible to mortal weapons._

 _Only a dragonlord's magic may entrap a dragon, and only a dragonlord's magic may free it._

The next thing he knew, someone was moving the book out from under his hand, and he blinked up at the wrinkled face and keen eyes of an old man bending over him. His body gasped in a lungful of air, and reacted in an attempted scramble of retreat, even as his mind further identified long white hair, not Uther Pendragon.

"Calm down, boy," the man ordered, one hand on Merlin's chest to arrest his movement. "We don't want you falling off that bed, do we? I won't hurt you – I'm the physician, Gaius."

Merlin relaxed, feeling sheepish. "I'm Merlin," he said without thinking.

The physician straightened, his gaze slipping away thoughtfully. Merlin sat up, groaning under his breath at the pull in his stomach muscles, and set his boots on the floor.

"Merlin," Gaius repeated. "Not – Hunith's boy? From, what was it, Ealdor?"

"You remember," Merlin said, pleased and doubly relieved. "My mother wasn't sure you would. And Ealdor isn't there anymore, actually – overrun by bandits years ago."

"That's a shame," Gaius said, lifting one stern eyebrow down at Merlin. "And possibly ironic, considering the activities that resulted in your capture, yourself."

"Oh, but I wasn't…" Merlin trailed off, feeling his face throb a little more insistently as it heated. "I didn't mean for anyone to be hurt."

Gaius humphed skeptically, then turned away to his work-table, rummaging around the little bottles and bowls. "So Hunith's son is the prince of Caerleon. How did that come about?"

"Magic," Merlin answered impertinently, and received the raised eyebrow again over Gaius' shoulder.

"What a grand destiny, then," the old man said, turning to face Merlin with a clean dry cloth in hand and a bottle that smelled like what Gwen had used, earlier in the day. "When Hunith wrote me, years ago, she was sure such magic wasn't intended to remain in a farming village."

"She's said that to me, too," Merlin murmured, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth against the cool sting of the cleansing fluid Gaius wiped gently over his skin.

"Curious," the old man continued, slowly because of the distraction of treating Merlin's bruised face. "There used to be – someone, living here, who would speak to me of destiny. It was Emrys this, and Emrys that…"

"Do you know who that is?" Merlin interrupted. "I could hear echoes of magic-users, down in the cells, pleading for help from this Emrys person. And he never came?"

"Perhaps the answer is closer to _not yet_ , than _not at all_ ," Gaius said carefully. "According to prophecy, he will be instrumental in returning magic to Camelot and uniting Albion."

Merlin hummed, losing interest because if that ever happened, it would be far into the future.

"Mostly I tried to ignore – this person," Gaius continued, "but he was insistent when I was weary. And now here you are, and I'm meeting Hunith's son after all."

"Annis says we make our own destiny," Merlin said, prying his eyes open as he sensed the old man had finished with his face. "Alator disagreed, but he'd never argue with the queen." Briefly he wondered if he should guard his speech more carefully – but his mother had trusted Gaius, and he didn't believe the old physician would purposefully repeat to his king anything said in confidence.

Now, when he got back to Caerleon and Thurston questioned _him_ …

"Alator?" Gaius said. "Off with your shirt, boy, you're moving like your ribs are made of glass."

"Cracked glass," Merlin agreed, stretching and flinching his way out of his shirt. Bruises blossomed purple and yellow all along his left side and his belly, and his skin had split from the swelling in several places. "Alator was my tutor in magic. He's a Catha, from the city of-."

"What is – that's the _Endel-Easnes_ , isn't it?" Gaius said sharply, and Merlin looked up to see that though the old man's hand was outstretched, he wasn't quite touching the silver chain at Merlin's neck.

"The what?"

"Endel-Easnes," Gaius repeated, sounding unhappy. "I suppose you know by now what it does."

"It's meant to act like it's strangling me if I try to use magic," Merlin said, running a finger between the figure-8 links and his skin.

"You've tested it?" Gaius was disapproving, not surprised. Merlin only shrugged, letting his eyes roam the work-table, rather than meet the old man's searching gaze. "And – what did you discover? It works, does it not?"

"Of course it works," Merlin said quickly. "Anyway, I was saying that my tutor came from the city of Helva."

"Ah," Gaius said. He studied Merlin a moment longer, then bent to begin to wipe the cool astringent liquid along Merlin's ribs – he straightened with a hiss – with a clean side of the rag. "And Alator never mentioned the prophecies to you? Of Albion, of Emrys and the Once and Future King?"

Merlin tried not to lean away from the physician's fingers, pressing into the sore flesh in search of cracks or breaks in his bones. "He mentioned their existence. But he said, they didn't require our knowledge or intervention for their fulfillment, and he respected the queen's viewpoints on choice enough to leave them an unspoken mystery."

"And you weren't curious?" Gaius asked, drawing back. "No, Gwen was right – nothing's broken."

Merlin tried a deep breath tentatively, and agreed with the diagnosis. "I was curious. But I have enough to worry about, trying to be a proper heir for the Caerleon throne, than to add the concern of prophecies."

Gaius grunted, retreating to a side cabinet and rummaging for a bundle of bleached cloth that turned out to be a shirt when he tossed it to Merlin. "I suspect there is probably quite a bit of truth in that," he said. "How often have men fulfilled prophecy, having no idea they were doing it?" He added, as Merlin eased himself into the clean shirt, "They didn't bring you anything to eat at noon – perhaps you wouldn't mind sharing a dinner with an old man?"

"If the alternative is my cell, gladly," Merlin said. And the mention of midday and the stocks reminded him, "What about Gwen, your assistant? Does she eat with you?"

"Gwen is… otherwise occupied." Gaius unfolded and folded the cloth he'd used to clean Merlin's skin. "A return to – former duties, presumably. And I will be in need of an assistant, again." He sighed and turned away to the guard – who, if he hadn't been sleeping the while, had done an admirable job of keeping still and silent, inside his helmet and behind his crossed arms, across the room and out of earshot of Merlin and Gaius' conversation.

Former duties? If this was the same maid Prince Arthur had mentioned, hadn't she been servant to the missing Lady – Morgana, Arthur had said.

His thoughts were distracted by the guard, who clanked his way to his feet and exclaimed, "Gaius, I can't! My orders were-"

"To follow my orders," the physician interrupted sternly.

"But he's a prisoner! A hostage, and an enemy, and-"

"My patient." Gaius drew himself up, and the guard couldn't hold his gaze, visibly deflating as he fumbled behind him for the door-latch.

"All right, then, but if he causes trouble…"

"It is my understanding that he's already agreed to remain in Camelot peacefully," Gaius countered evenly. "I don't believe I have anything to fear from him, do I, Caerleon?"

"Of course not," Merlin said. Although he might consider his agreement nullified by the day's abuse, practically speaking he couldn't declare himself contractually free, and simply walk out the gates. There was still the matter of the collar, and the fact that Camelot's fighters would act to keep him prisoner.

"There you see," Gaius said, sounding impatient. "Out. Thank you." As the door closed behind the guard, the old man made his way to the hearth. Protecting his hand with a cloth, he pulled a small pot back from smoldering coals. "Ham and bean soup? There are bowls on the table, there."

Merlin located them, and crouched stiffly to hold them while the physician ladled them full of the thick savory soup.

"Thank you, my boy – no, don't bother with the bench and table, you'll be more comfortable on the bed, there. Just don't spill."

"I won't," Merlin assured him amusedly, accepting the bowl that was obviously fuller. His stomach grumbled and pinched, and he slurped his first mouthful before lowering himself to a seat on the bed.

Gaius rested himself on the bench across the table, planting his elbows and swallowing one bite for every other one of Merlin's. But he told stories about the beasts detailed in the pages of the book Merlin was reading; especially fascinating was the one where the last dragonlord had infiltrated the citadel a year and a half ago to free the dragon Uther had kept captive since the Purge, and rode it blazing across the night sky to freedom in the far northern mountains. Once Gaius turned his back to dip another half a bowlful for a second helping for Merlin, and he had the opportunity to return the courtesy, speaking of the unicorn they'd glimpsed across the Rusk River and the bastet he'd tamed, and he was disappointed when a knock sounded on the door.

A guard – the same one, or his relief? – put his head in. "Time to return the prisoner to his cell."

Merlin groaned, dreading the effects of damp night air on his contusions – but as he tried to push to his feet, his balance tipped, and he thudded back down, clutching at the soup bowl so the dregs wouldn't drip. The room warmed and blurred, and a careless lassitude washed through him. That pillow, that pillow was mighty fine. And so much closer than his below-ground cell from this tower chamber, and… had he been given something? He blinked up at Gaius dumbly as the physician declared his intention of keeping the patient overnight for observation.

"As you can see, he's clearly exhausted and I am unsatisfied with his breathing and movement after the brutal beating sanctioned by His Majesty, therefore he will remain-"

Merlin felt deeply content, as if, though he wasn't where he wanted to be, he was where he belonged.

A hand took the bowl from his, and lifted his feet, removing his boots as gently as his mother had done, long ago. His head rested on the pillow, and he again succumbed to involuntary sleep.


	8. Sparring, and Other Subjects

**Chapter 8: Sparring, and Other Subjects**

Arthur repeated to himself, _A cell, for almost a year_.

You certainly couldn't tell it to look at her. Maybe a bit paler but she wasn't shockingly white-skinned, nor did she shy from the morning sunlight streaming through the window. And though her dress had been dirty, it hadn't stank like a year since washing, and worn all the time. And why would someone who had access to a cell, not take any further action – not selling her to an enemy who would make use of her, nor ransoming her to Uther, for coin or other concessions.

And, to his knowledge, there was nowhere that fit that description within a day's ride of where she'd been found. No castle, no ruins…

"How did you get out?" he asked gently.

"They moved me about a week ago," she said. Distraught to the point of having tears in her eyes – but her hair was glossy-clean, not dull and thinned as it would have been if she'd been deprived of sunlight and given less-than-complete meals. Her cheeks were full, and there weren't any fine lines by her eyes and mouth that would betray prolonged suffering, physical or mental. "I don't know why. It may have been the patrol from Camelot."

It wasn't. He thought back – where had they been patrolling a week ago? That was before the reports of Caerleon's raiders…

"The patrol found you?" he asked. That much at least could be assumed, that Sir Oandel had encountered the bandits she'd been with, after retaking Evorwick. Possibly, the men were mercenaries, hired for the task of moving the lady prisoner for some more powerful master, unseen and unknown. But who should take pleasure in keeping her locked up but looked after, and pay hirelings for guard duty? He couldn't believe it of King Rodor – but maybe a minor lord from Nemeth, or even Odin's land, risking crossing into Camelot because…

"I thought I was going to be free," Morgana confided, interrupting his train of thought. Her voice trembled, her tears threatened, and the delicate femininity of her soft lacy night-gown and robe, leaving her feet bare, made him believe her and want to protect her. "But then I saw them killed, every one of them cut down. But that night, the bandits were distracted by their spoils-"

 _Spoils? From a patrol? Well, weapons and armor, maybe – and perhaps they fought over it, but…_

"I took my chance – and when I saw you, I couldn't believe it." She leaned forward, twining her arms around his shoulders – and she so rarely demonstrated her affection physically that his swallow caught a lump in his throat. "I think I need to rest now."

She had just barely gotten up. Not yet dressed, the breakfast tray on her table less than half consumed… Arthur glanced through the doorway to the other chamber as Morgana released him and sat back, and caught Gwen's eye. The maid wasn't happy, which piqued his curiosity, because she should have been. But there was time enough to talk to her later, he didn't want to take her time from Morgana.

"Everything's going to be all right," he promised, and meant it. "You're safe now."

She nodded and gave him a smile too shy for the girl he remembered, and watched over her shoulder as he left the room.

Ignoring everyone he passed, he made for the physician's tower. Why should he want to question further? Not everything in life made sense – and just because he couldn't divine a reason for Morgana to have spent her year as she described, didn't mean it didn't happen. It might even be that forced dependency on her abductor and any small shred of kindness shown, might have resulted in a degree of attachment – maybe she'd been given some small freedoms of fresh air and exercise, and decent meals – and now she was ashamed, and couldn't admit the reality of the nature of her imprisonment. Then she was to be pitied, and humored, and in time she would relax back into her place in Camelot, taking up with her previous friends and activities.

There were two extra guards on unaccustomed duty, one at the base of the tower stairway, and outside the physician's closed door. Arthur nodded to the one at the door – _no new orders, hold here_ \- pushing through.

The first thing that caught his attention was Gaius, turning from the side table with an earthen pitcher balanced in a wooden bowl, a small towel over the sleeve of his blue robe. He acknowledged Arthur with a look and paused in his step. The second thing that Arthur noticed as the figure of the prince of Caerleon, sprawled over the patients' bed.

As Arthur closed the door behind him and moved closer, he saw that Caerleon was still asleep, his head turned on the pillow to show the unmarked right side of his face, and the silver chain at the unlaced collar of his plain white shirt. His hair was tumbled away from his face, and he looked too young to be… well, what? A barbarian, a raider, a killer? A sorcerer, slowly corrupting to evil with every use of magic? He thought guiltily of the confiscated book of spells he'd hidden in his room, in a drawer of his desk where the servants didn't clean without direction or permission.

Curiosity, maybe. _The heir to the throne should be well-educated in a variety of subjects, don't you agree, Your Highness?_

"Good morning, Gaius," Arthur said, and if his voice was lowered, it was because he was right next the old man and didn't need to speak up, not for any consideration for the sleeper.

"Sire," Gaius greeted him. "Have you come for my patient?"

"I've come for my hostage," Arthur countered, leaning one hip against the work-table as Gaius moved to the bedside. "Gwen said you found nothing wrong with Morgana? No illness, no injury?"

"No evidence of any such, the while she's been gone," Gaius answered. "Not even a hint of malnutrition, either. She seems to have been well-cared for. Physically, at least."

Arthur began to say, "What do you mean by that?" but Gaius had already turned his attention to the sleeping prince.

"Morning, my lord," he called, loudly enough to make the hostage twitch and begin to squirm in protest, scrunching his face.

"Just Merlin," he mumbled, but Arthur was close enough to hear.

So he'd told Gaius his name.

"Merlin, is it?" he said amusedly, pitching his voice to match Gaius' – and the prince's eyes flew open as if surprised to find someone else in the room. "I can't decide whether you look better today than yesterday, or worse." Deep purple ringed the cuts at his eye, and the side of his mouth, following the line of his jaw, but faded to greens and yellows and browns over the plane of his cheek and forehead.

The younger man made a noise like a whiny moan, all the way up to sitting, emphasizing rather than disguising the way he felt. "I hate you," he grumbled.

Arthur couldn't help laughing; Gaius quirked a stern eyebrow as he bent to offer the pitcher of water and bowl to his patient.

"Really, I do," Merlin added, taking the bowl and balancing it on his knees, pouring it full of water. "I actually, truly hate you."

"What happened to blaming the one responsible?" Arthur goaded.

"Oh, I hate your father, too."

"If you actually, truly hated me," Arthur mimicked him, "You wouldn't say it to my face."

"How do you know?" Merlin grouched, dipping water in his hands and splashing it gingerly over his bruises and scabs. "Maybe that's the way we do it in – no, it _is_ the way we do it in Caerleon."

"If you say so," Arthur said. It was amusing when someone else was waking up cranky. "Gaius?"

"As you can see, the swelling is down, but the bruising has spread," the old man said, offering the towel and taking back the pitcher and bowl of used water.

"Feels like it, too," Merlin mumbled around the material of the towel off Gaius' arm, and made a noise of relief. "Mm. Thanks, Gaius."

"Breakfast is on the table," the physician said, retreating. "Arthur, you've eaten?"

"A while ago. It's late, _Mer_ lin, you've slept in."

The other prince creaked and groaned to his full height, and moved stiffly on stocking feet to the table. "If that's the way you're going to say my name, I would rather you address me as _my lord_."

Arthur snorted. "No chance."

The grin Merlin tossed over his shoulder was almost merry, and Arthur wanted to _like_ him – could he like him without trusting him?

"Here, have this first," Gaius interjected, handing the young man one of his many dose-bottles, without a lid.

Merlin took it unhesitatingly, lifting one leg over the bench, and tilted his head to take the contents in one swallow as he sat. He gasp-growled and shook his head, grimacing, before setting the little glass down. "What was that for, anyway?"

"Lingering pain," Gaius informed him.

Arthur shook his head in disbelief – just to drink it, and _then_ ask. He moved where he could see the other prince's face, while Merlin settled more fully onto the bench.

"I wished to speak to you particularly this morning," he said, leaning backwards against Gaius' work-table.

"Can't it wait til I've eaten?" Merlin griped, spooning honey into the thick steaming bowl of porridge. He didn't seem to think anything wrong with that for a breakfast, but Arthur privately grimaced, glad he was free to choose his own meals. And include _meat_.

"Can't you do two things at once?" he responded in the same tone. Merlin glared at him, scooping his mouth full without speaking. "On the trip here, we spoke of my father's ward, the Lady Morgana, who'd been missing for some time."

From the corner of his eye he saw Gaius straighten in the armchair behind the desk, eyeing them rather than the tome opened before him – but he said nothing, and Merlin only grunted.

Arthur took that as reason to continue. "And I told you, yesterday I was absent from the citadel. One of the reasons was, we found her."

The prince of Caerleon was unreserved in his expression of feelings; if it was an act, it was a _very_ good one. Arthur watched those three words – _we found her_ – sink into the younger man's comprehension, as his chewing slowed.

"You found her," he repeated. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," Arthur drawled, trying to watch him closely without being obvious about it. "The band of men she was with was never the ones keeping her all year, though, that much I'm sure of. And I find myself thinking of how very eager you were to discuss the situation in terms of magic, the day before yesterday-"

"I wouldn't say _eager_ ," Merlin objected, his spine straightening as his brows drew down.

"And the patrol I sent to Evorwick was ambushed by the men who had Morgana, with every man killed," Arthur continued.

"Now hang on-"

"And a single day before we find our missing lady, the heir of our enemy arrives at the heart of our kingdom – now walking about free and eating breakfast porridge with our physician," Arthur finished.

Merlin was frowning, but there was unhappiness mixed with the anger. "What oath can I swear that you would believe? Our kingdoms are enemies and I can make no apology for that, but I don't lie and I never will. I may refuse to answer…" His lips quirked wryly. "I knew nothing of this Lady til you mentioned her. My queen would never stand for the mistreatment of an abducted innocent, and my king would never keep it secret; there is no profit in that."

Arthur didn't like believing him. "You have to admit, it's a hell of a coincidence," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Merlin seemed to relax a bit, his shoulders drooping as he again scooped breakfast into his mouth. "Some men say coincidence. Other men say destiny."

"Destiny," Arthur repeated sarcastically. "Destiny brought you to Camelot?"

"According to Gaius," Merlin said innocently. And he couldn't have been chewing properly, his spoon moved too fast.

"Really?" Arthur said, shifting so he faced the old man behind his desk.

Gaius pretended that he'd been interrupted from complete concentration on the pages. "I beg your pardon, sire?"

"It's just," Merlin excused, "Gaius knew my mother. So he feels we were fated to meet. Sometime, somewhere… somehow."

"Huh," Arthur grunted derisively.

"I mean…" Merlin threw an innocent twinkle over his shoulder to the physician. "He was kind enough to give me dinner and breakfast, and a decent night's rest outside my cell, who am I to argue with his concept of the mysterious forces moving through the events of men?"

This time it was Gaius grumbling caustically. But the word-sparring and the stiff way the other prince was moving – and he was almost finished with his bowl of porridge – reminded Arthur of his secondary plan.

"Since we're already well in the way of spoiling you, _sire_ , I suppose you have no objections to a little fresh air?"

Arthur's servant should have carried the other prince's sword along with Arthur's from his chamber to the training field earlier that morning. And, if Merlin of Caerleon was of little use with a blade, it might be that he was stronger and better-skilled with magic than they'd thought, and Arthur was truly lucky to have caught him off-guard, the day in the ravine.

"Oh, lovely, am I to tour the citadel?" Merlin scraped the last of his porridge and swallowed it. "Let me borrow a page of parchment and a charcoal pencil, Gaius? I can take notes and draw diagrams and map corridors, and so on? Since I am spying for my king."

"Merlin," Gaius chastened with his tone. It didn't seem to affect the prince's impudence at all.

"Not exactly," Arthur said, grinning – but not completely discounting the possibility of a grain of truth in the younger man's words. "I was going to show you to the training field. Work out some of that stiffness in your muscles."

Merlin stared, mouth dropping open – then twisted on the bench to look at Gaius.

"He should be able to participate in your training exercises," the physician stated – and was that a twinkle of amusement? "As long as it's nothing too strenuous."

"All right, let's go," Arthur decided.

Merlin groaned, and let his head thump on the table – but lifted his legs to the outside of the bench. Then, inexplicably, he stretched out his hand and began to say a word Arthur didn't recognize – only to cut himself off with an odd little cough, rearing up in a livelier manner than he'd laid himself down.

From his chair, Gaius humphed, and Merlin sent him an annoyed look. Pushing to his feet, he padded back to the patients' bed for his boots, discarded the previous night. "Am I to have shackles and guards, or just you, Pendragon?"

Arthur puffed his chest a little. "I don't need guards and shackles to keep one prisoner compliant," he said, letting his tone boast, and deliberately stressing the difference between himself and the other prince. "I've been trained to kill since _birth_."

Merlin snorted, buckling his boots up the outside of his shins. "That's just ridiculous. No one trains babies how to kill. Or little kids – it's always be careful of this, or don't touch that. How old were you when they started letting you cut your own meat, I wonder?"

"Shut up, _Mer_ lin." Arthur held the door for the other prince to precede him – which was caution, not courtesy.

"Is that your way of ending an argument you're going to lose?" Merlin tossed over his shoulder as he began to descend the tower stair, with movements both jerky and tentative, probably due to soreness. "You win if you can order the other person to stop?"

"Maybe no guards and shackles," Arthur said, jogging down with him, and intimating with a gesture, which corridor they should take at the bottom of the stair. "But I might consider a _gag_ …"

"No you won't," Merlin said immediately. "Because no one else talks to you like this, and it's refreshing and invaluable, and you like it."

Arthur made a rude noise. But now they were out from under Gaius' eye, and though they might be drawing curious glances, no one was near enough to overhear. And for all his flippant disrespect, he didn't believe the other prince had been anything but truthful. "Speaking of value," he said casually, "in composing your ransom request, what do you think we ought to ask for?"

"Ask my king to sing you a love-ballad," Merlin said, without looking at Arthur. "That would be the worst thing you could possibly require of him. He'll hate that."

"We might, also," Arthur said, amused. "And when he's done, we'll have nothing to show for it."

"Well, why are you asking me anyway, if you don't like my ideas?" Merlin wondered.

Arthur let a few moments pass in silence, the thud of their booted feet down the open gallery rhythmic. "When your warrior mentioned ransom, you agreed – but neither of you meant it. Because you thought we'd ask for too much? A hostage can be negotiated for, you know – and you can probably guess my father isn't keen to _keep_ you."

"And you don't mind telling me that because it can't affect your negotiations with Caerleon anyway." Merlin sighed, still not looking at him; Arthur found he was a little surprised, how swiftly the other prince's mind worked. "I think your father needs to accustom himself to disappointment."

"You think your king won't pay, any sum," Arthur said. Merlin didn't answer or look at him, but Arthur knew it was true. "Why, because you're adopted? He can disown you and choose another?"

That brought Merlin's head around, brows gathered and eyes stormy. "You really think so little of us?" he said softly. "No. They would not give up on me – but neither are they going to _pay_ to recover someone they sent to steal from you."

"Land, then," Arthur proposed. "Or other tribute – resources, products, other objects of value?"

"Have you ever been to Caerleon?" Merlin said, almost desperately. "Our cropland is rocky and shallow, our livestock thin and tough. Hunting is scarce and fishing is dangerous. They'll expect me to effect my own release and not return empty-handed, either."

Arthur blinked.

"And I probably shouldn't have said all that," the other prince muttered, dropping his head. "Except you'd figure it out anyway, and then suspect me and I… don't like being suspected."

"So that's your plan, then," Arthur said, wishing he'd worn his sword instead of sending it on to the field. "Death and destruction as you go, and take something with you that will win back the favor of your king and queen."

"No. I don't know." Merlin's shoulders hunched, and he picked at the cuffs of his white shirt. "No. I meant my promise, to cooperate. If I _have_ _to_ escape, I will, but… I don't know."

Arthur wondered if Evorwick and Stonedown had been Merlin's first raid. His first command. He couldn't help thinking of his own first command, the raid upon the druid encampment. And what a catastrophe that had been, and how confused and uncertain he'd felt for months, after.

"If your kingdom is that badly off," he said casually, "is that because the magic-"

"It's because he won't let me use the magic," Merlin spat, hugging his arms to his chest. "It might help enrich the land, but how do we know if I'm not allowed to-" He broke off, staring toward the treetops visible beyond the wall. "And how does Camelot come to be so prosperous having persecuted magic for the last twenty years?"

Arthur had no wish to provoke the younger man, sorcerer under restraints or no. "It's because we've cleansed the land of the evil of sorcery," he said, as evenly as inoffensively as he could.

Merlin said automatically, "Magic isn't…" then paused, and gave Arthur a look of discovery. "Oh. Of the evil of sorcery. Huh. And then the druids are left, and they… Um. Never mind."

After a disconcerting moment in which he was sure they'd been speaking at cross purposes, Arthur began walking again. "Well, my father is not going to be happy about not putting a price on your head, nor about housing you indefinitely, dainty silver necklace or no."

"Yeah… go ahead and ask your price, and let the kings bicker diplomatically," Merlin said absently. "Perhaps you and I can come to some other arrangement. Gaius mentioned you have a griffon caged beneath the citadel – and a questing beast loosed in a forest infested with serkets?"

"And a rogue dragon on the loose somewhere in the north mountains," Arthur agreed. "You mean you could kill them, in exchange for your freedom?"

Merlin tipped his head and cocked an eyebrow without slowing his pace. "Kill them? I was going to say, I could relocate them…"

Arthur frowned back at him. Wasn't that an odd suggestion, coming from a barbarian? He would have thought-

"When you said training field, you meant _field_ ," Merlin blurted, as they emerged from the passageway to the gently sloping yard, where the other knights had already begun their exercises. "With _grass_."

"And yours is?" Arthur said quizzically, leading the other prince to the side table where a servant waited with their things.

"Training _grounds_." Merlin grinned, blue eyes dancing, before he faced the field again. "It's going to be almost fun to take a fall, here."

"Plan to do that a lot," Arthur advised teasingly.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin had never met another prince.

Not having – nor wanting – the complication of allies among the other monarchs, Caerleon was not exactly welcoming to royal visitors. And the young noblemen of the kingdom weren't friendly to Merlin. Jealous, resentful, arrogant, violent… and if Merlin was meant to rule them, they'd have to be subdued enough to obey his command, someday. That, or Merlin would spend his life fighting to enforce his will.

He wondered if Arthur Pendragon felt the same way about the knights and nobility of Camelot.

Probably not. Pendragon was the sort of crown prince that Thurston would have boasted of. Strong, confident, handsome… comfortably in command and not at all uncertain of his abilities. And now he knew Merlin's name.

Yep, Merlin hated him. But he was a Pendragon, and Pendragons hated magic, and Merlin was magic, so that was okay.

And at the same time, he couldn't help but be drawn to the other prince; he was so unlike the other young men Merlin had come into contact with. He didn't sneer over the sarcasm and turn an indifferent shoulder. He didn't feign deference and then snicker when Merlin looked away. And, he seemed curious about magic. More ignorant than utterly opposed on some illogical moral grounds.

That emotional confusion might have betrayed Merlin into letting down his guard and being too candid on the topic of ransom. Then again, sometimes gambles paid off.

Merlin followed the Pendragon prince around the edge of the verdant lawn where the knights were stretching and sparring, stumbling as he watched them more than his footing.

Everyone had a hauberk of mail, like the prince had claimed. And their approach to sword-work seemed to be more methodical, more dispassionate than the fight-hard-til-you-fall way Caerleon's warriors sharpened their skills.

"I had your armor and sword brought down," the prince's voice said, and Merlin turned his head just in time to avoid walking into the equipment table where Pendragon had stopped. "Or you can try the chainmail, if you prefer."

His tone and sideways smirk clearly indicated which of the two he considered superior – and then he turned to the aid of a serving-attendant, gathering up the shimmery metal links for him to don. And Merlin did want to try the chainmail – for comparison's sake. Maybe someday when bruised ribs wouldn't protest every movement and contact with the unforgiving mail-metal.

"I'll use my own," he decided, moving for his breastplate – which had at least been brushed down by someone, since he'd surrendered it.

Aware that Pendragon – and at least three other knights that were near – kept an eye on him, he maintained a careful and deliberate distance from the weapons, lacing the leather snugly down his side, before reaching for his vambraces. The other prince's amusement showed as Merlin tightened the ties of the leather armor around his wrists and forearms with his teeth and the fingers of his other hand, while the attendant performed the service for him.

"Can you not afford your own servants in Caerleon?" Pendragon drawled condescendingly.

"We generally don't leave it to others, what we can do ourselves," Merlin responded – and he was done before the servant had fastened the pieces to Pendragon's satisfaction. Not bothering to hide his own smirk at all, he stepped away from the table to begin stretching his body and muscles, twisting and warming and beginning to focus mentally.

A shrill whistle was scant warning, before Pendragon tossed a sword to him – his sword. And usually he'd have touched his magic in calling hilt to palm surely – but the reaction of Uther's damn chain at his neck when he'd tried to summon his boots in Gaius' chamber warned him, better to let the blade drop and be thought clumsy, than to cut his fingers catching it wrong. So his sword stuck in the ground next his boot, and bent down to vertical under the weight of the hilt, and Pendragon laughed.

"You sure you know how to use that thing?"

Merlin ignored him, turning his back to stretch his arms over his head, twisting and bending at the waist to ease the soreness from his body before they began the match. From the corner of his eye he saw Pendragon step out from behind the table, adjusting his gloves and spinning his sword at his side; it was an ostentatious preparation and unnecessary – but everyone had their own habits that calmed them for concentration.

"You're stalling," Pendragon claimed in a sing-song.

And Merlin would not allow the prince to provoke him into rushing. Not for a practice match. Not for his first practice match in years where he couldn't use his magic at all.

Filling his lungs and letting it out, and putting the gathering spectators of curious knights from his mind, he bent to scoop up his sword, cleaning it on the thigh of his trousers. He cut the air twice with his blade in a figure X, _fast-faster_ , and settled into a defensive stance, narrowing his eyes to focus on Pendragon.

Who, for a moment, stood unmoving, all levity and arrogance gone, to leave only an intense sort of stillness.

Merlin decided to leave the aggression to him. He was always better at defense, anyway, and it was Pendragon's to prove that he was better than his hostage.

It seemed Pendragon came to the same conclusion – but his eyes and shoulders and feet signaled his intention, and Merlin met his attacks – swift _first-second-third_ strikes handily, backing a step and pivoting a step, then disengaging.

The crowd began to murmur encouragement – "Come on, Sire!"

Perhaps the forms were taught differently in Camelot. Perhaps they considered various moves easier or harder than in Caerleon, but it seemed to Merlin – Pendragon moved forward again, extending his aim from Merlin's core to include head- and leg-strikes – that his opponent had begun with skills of middling difficulty.

Merlin guarded himself with ease, circling but not retreating – duck-and-pass, backhand swipe – and return to defensive stance. Pendragon smirked, and abruptly doubled his speed as he varied his attacks from basic to risky-fancy, and Merlin began to feel hard-pressed.

"That's it, my lord! You've got him!"

Over the last few years, he had compromised between his tutor's philosophy and his king's ambitions. While he didn't wield his magic as a secondary weapon against a single adversary, or a group, he did routinely rely on it as an extra sense. Anticipating his opponent's moves or thoughts or feelings, firming his hold or quickening or strengthening a reaction. And while none of the warriors of Caerleon ever objected – instead taking his increasing inclusion of magic as a reason to stop holding back when they sparred with him – Merlin could draw on none of that supplemental skill, now.

So Pendragon was beginning to best him. And it wasn't really the burning pull of bruised muscles along his left flank, nor the pulse of exertion through the existing damage of face and head and neck. Pendragon was stronger, faster, and more skilled.

And he knew it. The gleam of triumph anticipated shone in his eyes, in his bared teeth, and Merlin would have none of it.

So he braced himself, and when Pendragon drew his sword back for another hammer-hard blow – one-two- _three_ -

Merlin sent a bolt of magic hurtling at the sword, hilt to point, increasing weight and momentum, and it flew back from Pendragon's gloved hand.

The prince's eyes widened in shock; surprised cries rose from the knights who had to duck and scramble away from the flying, falling blade. Merlin had no breath to laugh, fighting the choking sensation of the chain, but in a moment when it abated…

Shock only slowed Pendragon's reflexes minimally. Disarmed-be-damned, he charged Merlin. Two steps – and Merlin slow to dodge – and once again he was landing full-length on the ground under the prince's superior weight, trying and failing to breathe.

Because he was laughing.

"Yield!" Pendragon demanded, catching his off-wrist up between his shoulder-blades and leaning on the other to capture Merlin's weapon.

Merlin wasn't resisting – but nor was he yielding. "Bloody – _hells_ , Pendragon! Your face… you should have seen your face!"

"Stop laughing!" Pendragon hissed in his ear, yanking his arm a little higher and tighter than it wanted to go. Merlin grunted – and kept giggling. "Stop it! What are you, an idiot _child_?"

"Oh…" Merlin was helpless with exhaustion and hilarity over his opponent's frustration. "Oh, that was entirely worth it. You looked… you looked…"

"Shut _up_." Pendragon heaved himself off and away, sliding the sword away from Merlin's hand.

Merlin allowed it, rolling to grin up at the sun-haloed prince and rub moisture from his eyes on his sleeve, upward of the vambrace holding the material tight to his forearm. After an aggrieved moment, Pendragon reached to offer a hand to pull him up, and Merlin accepted it.

"I won," Pendragon declared.

Merlin couldn't stop grinning. "Well, I didn't lose. Did I hurt you when you landed on me, this time?"

"Damn you, Caerleon," Pendragon said, irritated.

Into the moment of sunlight and exertion and competition and release, a musical feminine voice spoke.

"So, this is the prince of Caerleon. Introduce me, Arthur?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana's planned and practiced speeches had been Morgause's idea, but she'd been right. The additions made necessary by the not-completely-predictable characters of her friends hadn't been too difficult, either.

Gwen's compassion could be rejected or redirected, and Morgana's excuse, _I_ _just want to forget about it_ , would only be necessary a limited number of times, she assumed, before her maid quit asking about her physical welfare and state of mind, quit offering to listen to anything and everything Morgana had to say. And the awkward, hesitant hurt she saw in Gwen's eyes and actions, was easy enough to shrug off – everything would change again inside of a week anyway, and then… then she could hope for a candid conversation with her former friend and not-quite sister.

The interview with Arthur had her on edge; she didn't think she performed it as well as she could've, and as well as Morgause had assured her she would. There had been questions and doubt in his eyes and voice – but her embrace and the request for rest had settled him back into etiquette and good breeding, and with any luck, he'd soon dismiss any lingering reservations as unmannerly.

But Uther. The one person she'd been afraid to face. Not because she still worried that her magic would leap out to betray her, anymore. But maybe the animosity she felt would. The knowledge of what she was doing, the intent to deceive and the need to remain uncaught, might read as guilt.

But Morgause had been right about Uther, too. A show of humility, apology, gratitude, had him disgustingly soft, and blinking tears for her to catch on her ready handkerchief. The final ingredient, here in her hand.

She folded the little square of soft cloth as she left the grand receiving chamber, just the slightest bit unsteady in the fancy feminine slippers she was wearing. Can't stalk about like she'd done in the plainer woolen dress and boots, all year. But she was in a hurry to leave the king's presence, even though she'd have to wait til nightfall to venture outside the walls to meet her sister and witness the enchantment prepared. Even though Sir Leon, who'd been speaking with the king when she arrived in the receiving chamber, was now following her – discreetly, but still. She told herself it was for her safety and security, not because of any suspicion they might have about-

Walking past a window that overlooked the training field, she happened to glance out – and paused, rocking back a step to watch more closely.

Beside the equipment table ostensibly but not exclusively for the prince's use, Arthur was being buckled into his armor by one of the servants. Nothing new or surprising or even interesting. But next to him, a black-haired, clean-shaven young man, tall and slender, was using his teeth to fit himself into armor no knight of Camelot would be found dead wearing.

The hostage? The prince with magic? The prisoner in the stocks – being allowed the free use of his hands, and a weapon?

Stuffing the slightly-damp kerchief into the cuff of her sleeve, she turned her steps to take her out to sun and grass, cursing the fine slippers – and Gwen for insisting that her boots needed to be disposed of. And herself for not thinking of a good reason quickly enough to keep them.

 _I need something I can wear on my feet and move_ quietly _…_

It was a little unsettling to have the unrestricted use of the citadel, rather than a few chambers and the direct halls that connected them, and someone beside her to make sure she remained unseen, and within the rooms that protected her – but she would not be intimidated by _freedom_ , of all things, something she valued all the more for having it threatened by Uther Pendragon.

Well, no more.

When she arrived at the training field, the knights had already formed a loose circle around Arthur and the other prince, sparring by the sound of it, though she couldn't see anything. And by the time the men noticed her and shifted politely to allow her space, Arthur had his opponent pinned on the ground, growling down at him in anger.

Instantly she wished she knew a spell to knock him over, to send him flying and free his captive sorcerer. The young man underneath him was squirming ineffectually, almost writhing with helpless and reactive-

 _Laughter_.

What? Morgana stood still, feeling slightly unbalanced – and out of place on the field in the delicate white-silk gown and jewels. She should have braided her hair, worn trousers and boots…

The men around her murmured a variety of elusive emotions as they backed and turned from the pair, and she didn't hear what was said. But Arthur reached down to haul the other to his feet – brimming with merriment.

Morgana bristled instinctively. This was not what she'd expected to find, coming here, and she hated feeling so confounded. Or maybe it was part of _his_ act, and he was much better at it than she; she was speaking before she decided that she intended to.

"So this is the prince of Caerleon. Introduce me, Arthur?"

Both young men looked toward her. Arthur showed surprise and concern on his flushed, sweaty face, but she kept her gaze on the stranger, studying him in return as he let his eyes travel her figure, top to toes and back again.

Prince of Caerleon? His dark curls were damp and disheveled after his match with Arthur; the ring-studded leather armor and the extensive bruising beneath several cuts on his face gave him a look of being dangerous or violent or unpredictable – mostly because he didn't show the cowed demeanor, hunched shoulders and nervous eyes of a victim.

But he was old enough to need to shave – maybe not more than a year or possibly two younger than she – rather than let it grow hairy like the other warriors of Caerleon. And his head was up and his eyes held hers with confidence, his expression full of humor – not at all the sullen surly enemy as might be expected of a hostage from Caerleon.

"Morgana," Arthur said immediately, in that scolding-disapproving tone that she'd always hated. "You shouldn't be here."

"Why not?" she countered. "I've rested, and I'm getting fresh air and sunshine and mild exercise. Gaius wouldn't object." She hadn't actually seen Gaius yet today – wanted to avoid a truly private conversation with the old man, especially if the conversation turned to questions of magic. As seemed likely with a magic-user in the citadel.

 _Not_ chained in a cell?

Arthur cleared his throat, reluctant, and looked away to the distance between her and the stranger. "Caerleon, this is the Lady Morgana, the King's Ward," he said. "Morgana, the prince of Caerleon."

"Merlin," the stranger said, giving her a respectful bow – which seemed to soothe her into a calmer mood, which lightened a bit more when Arthur glared at him, for some unknown reason, and he answered with a look of impudence.

Finally someone else who'd stand up to Arthur? Yet he was an enemy of Camelot, and one with magic.

"I was very interested to meet you," she said, beginning to consider some way she could manage a private conversation with _him_ , about magic. Tricky, but not impossible, with proper planning, but for now… "I hear you have magic."

"Not at the moment, no," Merlin said easily. "Your prince may have freed my hands to test their skills - but yesterday your king bound my magic before his own test." He lifted one hand to tug at the ring-studded leather breastplate, bringing two inches of a thick chain with no pendant into view at the collar of the thin white shirt he wore below his armor.

"Are you quite sure about that?" Arthur asked narrowly. "And you didn't use it to disarm me just now?" Morgana followed his gesture to see Arthur's practice sword on the grass several paces distant from where they'd been sparring.

"How could that have been me?" Merlin shrugged, his blue eyes widened innocently. "I'm restricted from magic. Maybe you're just…" He made an exaggerated flinging motion which Morgana interpreted as Arthur losing his grip on his sword, mid-swing. "Clumsy."

"Shut up," Arthur muttered, punching the other prince's arm.

He made a show of wincing, and rounded his mouth on a silent _Ow!_ of protest. But what came out was a snicker.

"So it doesn't hurt you, the chain?" Morgana said, pursuing her own topic of interest.

"No, my lady." There was a flash of something in his eyes, but she couldn't reliably call it resentment or unhappiness.

"How does it come off?" she asked, faintly goading to glimpse beneath that cheerful exterior. She wasn't happy with his devil-may-care attitude – surliness might be harder to penetrate, but easier to understand. And, depending on what Morgause decided about this unforeseen factor… "I assume if you could take it off, you would."

"I don't know, actually," Merlin answered, still casual. "I can't find a catch or a clasp, at all. When it went on, the ends seemed to… form their own link."

"My father would know the trick to it," Arthur stated, shifting his weight and crossing his arms like he was uncomfortable discussing it. "Probably it'll be removed at the border when your release is negotiated."

The prince of Caerleon grimaced at Arthur. Curious… interesting. Some hitch there, perhaps. Or some contrary aspect of the stranger's nature, to be amused when Arthur was irritated, and irritated when Arthur tried to be nice.

"I hope the negotiations are swift and smooth," she offered, tempering the truth with a bit of disguising aloofness, as Arthur had already advised her. "It must be so difficult for you, a hostage in an enemy kingdom. If you didn't wear that chain, I wonder what you'd do."

For a moment neither young man spoke. The light of humor faded from the blue of Prince Merlin's eyes, and he tucked his chin down just slightly before responding.

"Murder you all in your beds, I expect."

" _Mer_ lin," Arthur snapped – but his tone was that older-brotherly scolding one Morgana resented.

"You have so little an opinion of the honor of Caerleon?" Merlin continued, ignoring Arthur. "Or is it magic-users you believe incapable of morality or standards? And-" he shifted closer, and an old little tingle-thrill ran down Morgana's spine at his intensity – "think you if I plotted against my captors or the man who caused _this_ -"

He gestured abruptly to the bruised side of his face; she blinked in reaction, and Arthur flinched.

"I would actually admit to it in front of his son, and the man who holds my bond?"

Arthur looked disconcerted. Morgana couldn't figure if she'd actually offended the foreign prince, or if he was reacting because she'd hit close to the mark.

"I believe I should be getting back to my cell, Pendragon," Merlin said. Beginning to remove his armor, he stepped past Arthur to deposit it on the equipment table.

Arthur signaled to a knight who waited respectfully and patiently several paces away – Sir Leon, she realized, who'd followed her out to the training field for her own good. Leon moved closer, ready to take up the escort of the prisoner without need for verbal order.

"My lady Morgana, I'm pleased that you've been returned to your home and that you seem little the worse for your prolonged absence," Merlin concluded, courteously and coolly. Stripped to his shirtsleeves and he seemed younger for the vulnerability. "It was nice to have met you."

He gave her another little bow and turned to meet Sir Leon's look, comprehending his role as guard in a moment. She watched the two of them turn and stride away – Leon with measured steps and Merlin with a looser, more careless gait. He didn't look back. She wanted to kick him, for that last little observation, if it provoked suspicions in Arthur again.

But when Arthur turned back to her, his thoughts were on a different sort of suspicion entirely. "Please, please stay out of this situation, Morgana," he said. "This isn't at all like it was with Mordred."

She stared at him, not immediately following his tangential thought, and he noticed her confusion.

"The druid boy, Mordred?" he said. "Remember? Merlin is in no danger of his life – I promised him that and in spite of yesterday, or maybe because of it, Father has agreed that he's not to be touched if he keeps the peace. He does not need rescuing, or aid of any kind, or provocation to take defensive action himself – please, let me handle it my way, this time."

"Fine." She tossed her head and moved away, intending to return to her room to pass more of the day alone. "Don't worry about me. Staying away from all sorcery."

He didn't follow to escort her, and she was glad for that.

She remembered Mordred. Thought of him, from time to time. How he was, where he was – what he was learning. There had been no other raids, no druids caught or executed since then. And she was glad of that, but…

Where would Merlin stand, when Camelot fell?

 **A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.1 "The Tears of Uther Pendragon."**


	9. Sorcery of One Kind and Another

**Chapter 9: Sorcery of One Kind and Another**

 _In the second month of spring in Arthur's twenty-first year, Morgana was plagued by an odd sort of bad luck, the sort of thing she didn't dare complain of to the king. Instead she made nervous excuses for broken vases and burned curtains, and sought out the court physician. Rejecting the idea of more and stronger medicine, she gave the old man little peace til he agreed to teach her techniques of meditation and self-calm. And, as her particular malady was exacerbated by uninhibited emotion, the exercises served to regulate the condition, at least temporarily._

 _Two weeks into Morgana's new treatment, her emotions were severely tested. A kidnapping attempt left her undressed and alone, running for her life, while her maid Guinevere, by all accounts her best friend in Camelot, remained a captive – and one of little value beyond her own person. Fearing what inevitably would become of her friend, Morgana persuaded Arthur to stage a rescue attempt. It wasn't the first overture of friendship, rather than rivalry, between the two, but it did serve to bring them closer to a better understanding and appreciation of each other's character and motivation. Prince Arthur trusted and enlisted another knight, Sir Leon – who was attached to the missing girl by reason of a childhood spent in common - in the quest unsanctioned by the king for being in consideration of a mere servant. They scaled the wall of the castle appropriated by the mercenary Hengist, located the maid in her cell, and exited the way they'd come, in the dead of night with no one the wiser. Both young men remarked upon the unusual level-headedness and fortitude of the rescued maid, throughout the action, and the ordeal. Morgana proclaimed herself in Prince Arthur's debt, for the return of her friend._

* * *

Morgana wore purple to visit her sister. It was a royal color, and suitable for blending into night's shadows. She still missed the boots, though, picking her way out of Camelot and into the roughest rough country around, to a little sliver of a cave where the torches and firelight wouldn't be seen at night by anyone around. A cave guarded by two of the silent, eerie black-knights her sister commanded.

"You've done well," Morgause told her distractedly, her eyes on the little white square of cloth in Morgana's hand. "The tears of Uther Pendragon have only begun to fall."

Her remaining reluctance melted to remember Uther's disgusting display of emotion. He'd always behaved toward her with such an effusion of feelings that she half disbelieved him. Even when she deliberately provoked him with her behavior or choice of words, and even when his temper flared, he was always so ready to forgive and forget and lavish her with more – another dress, another necklace, another banquet. And none of it ever meant as much as the few times when he'd spoken a line of grudging praise for his son, and Arthur's eyes had lit up.

He'd earned his father's love. And whatever Uther felt for her, wasn't real. The privilege and regard would disappear as soon as he realized, _magic_.

She just needed to be the one in control when that happened.

Handing the kerchief to her sister, she swayed a little closer to watch the cauldron of black bubbling goo swallow the bit of white cloth, dragging it down against all expectations of surface tension.

Morgause had already turned away, retrieving yet another object from a table placed further into the cave. A very strangely shaped root or a very strangely imagined doll and she found it hard to look away from the swollen-hard white shape, trailing tendrils from its grotesque limbs. Without a word, her sister laid the thing atop the black potion filling the cauldron.

It was sucked down even more quickly than the handkerchief – but at the moment the thickened liquid closed over it, a shrill scream as of terror pierced Morgana's eardrums.

Coming unmistakably from the cauldron.

Morgana gulped air and tried to keep her expression a studious sort of frown when Morgause turned to her with a triumphant smirk, as if Camelot had capitulated to them already.

"The mandrake root is very special," her sister told her. "Only those with magic can hear its cries." Almost lovingly, she took a short stubby branch and began to stir the sticky black mixture. "But for those without magic, it pierces the very recesses of the soul, twisting the unconscious into the very image of fear and dread. Uther Pendragon will find that his great kingdom counts for nothing, when he has lost his mind."

As she lifted her eyes from the cauldron, Morgana forced her face to mirror the same satisfied smirk that was on her sister's face – it felt stiff, but Morgause didn't seem to notice.

Lowering her voice into the cadence she used for magic-work, Morgause began the enchantment – of which Morgana caught the meaning of one word in three. _With_ _the power of the ancients_ , it began. And then something like _scorn_ , _tears and blood_ , and Uther's name. _Insanity_ and _devil_ and _heart_ …

She couldn't help shivering. Of course Morgause's methods made perfect sense, and her ways were best and not to be questioned, but Morgana would have preferred something like sneaking Morgause into Camelot – she'd done it before, disguised as a knight – and maybe a few of her enchanted warriors, and storming the throne room to confront the king with his sins. Maybe it was justice to _torment_ him with those sins, but…

It made the knot between her shoulder-blades tighten.

Then Morgause reached right down into the cauldron, and pulled out the mandrake, oily and dripping with the noxious liquid. She made to hand it to Morgana, who instinctively pulled back.

"I can't carry it like that. It'll drip all over."

Morgause stared at her a moment, a moment in which she was sure she'd disappointed her sister permanently, but then turned back to the table for an oiled leather bag with a drawstring mouth. Tucking the enchanted mandrake root into it, she jerked the strings tight and held it out to Morgana with an impatient slant of her head.

She took it by the strings and tied them to her belt to leave her hands free – but then she didn't leave the cave. Morgause lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

"There was one other thing," Morgana said, wishing that knot of tension would ease. She'd expected to relax tonight, leaving Camelot and the need to perform to expectations behind her, coming to her beloved sister, but… maybe it was just the unsettling nature of the root and the enchantment.

"What is it?" Morgause said shortly, looking from the cauldron to the table behind her as if already moving past their moment, in her mind.

"Uther has a hostage with magic in the citadel." She smiled with satisfaction to catch Morgause's full and intense attention, to be the one imparting knowledge that her older sister lacked. It felt like a single step closer to equality, to bridging the great gap of experience and training between them. "Did you know that the prince of Caerleon was adopted as heir to the throne for his magic? Evidently Arthur captured him this week in some border skirmish."

Morgause's lips and eyes tightened, and she stared over Morgana's shoulder, rubbing her fingers in a way that said, she wanted to pace, to prompt the corresponding speed of thought. The cave was too small.

"You've seen his magic?"

"No," Morgana answered, the swell of confidence in her chest abating somewhat. "They've got some sort of chain around his neck to block it. Arthur claimed his life is in no danger, that they're bargaining him back to Caerleon. Even Uther can't execute a foreign royal, I suppose."

"Every other link of the chain is fused? The _Endel-Easnes_ , damn Uther. I could probably… but _Caerleon_." She stared into the darkness beyond the mouth of the cave for a moment.

"If we freed him, might he not be able to help us?" Morgana ventured. He didn't seem that inclined to friendly conversation when he stalked from the training field earlier that morning, but then… he probably thought that she was opposed to magic on principle, just like all of them. What other impression could she give with Arthur right there? And the irony was, Arthur assumed her to be interested in his release, already.

"You," Morgause emphasized, not looking at her. "Inside the citadel, he can only be of help to _you_ , during the invasion. I don't know, Morgana, it isn't wise to adjust such an intricate plan as ours at this late date. Cenred and his army will cross the border in three days' time… How old is this prince? A boy, or a man?"

"My age," Morgana answered the sharp black glance promptly, as she always did. "Maybe younger."

"A barbarian? Stupid, and full of hate for Camelot?"

"I wouldn't say that," Morgana hedged, not quite able to keep up with the thinking behind the questions – but that wasn't her place, after all. "He seems intelligent, and controlled. I believe he and Arthur have come to some form of mutual… understanding. At least." Based on the quick and easy way they spoke to each other, even if it was all sarcasm.

"I don't want you caught helping him," Morgause stated, and Morgana whole-heartedly agreed with that resolution. "But you may not be able to remove the chain, either."

"We have three days." She didn't like to hear _you may not be able to_. "I can figure out a way to speak to him alone, and examine the chain. If you're familiar with it, surely…"

"The question is, what would he do with his magic unleashed," Morgause said, biting her lip and rubbing her knuckles in small, almost unnoticeable motions. "He might bolt for his own border. Or try to attack Uther – and you've already said, you don't want either Pendragon assassinated."

"No," Morgana said. _Murder you all in your beds, I expect_ … "But I can speak to him about that, get him to agree to the chain removed on our terms."

"And you think a son of Caerleon would keep his word," Morgause scoffed.

"He has magic," Morgana said defensively. "Surely that makes him our kin, doesn't it? An ally at the least."

Morgause hummed, shifting her weight to twist away, absent in thought, then turned back. "If we kept him just as he is, chain and cell, we could be the ones to bargain with his kingdom. A little gold never goes amiss, or some alliance of mutual benefit, perhaps."

"We can't," Morgana said, dismayed at the suggestion. "We can't _sell_ him. Even if he is a foreign prince, he's _magic_."

"We didn't capture him. We could call it a – reward for aiding his release. In any case, we don't know that he'd be friendly to our cause. Magic-users don't always see eye-to-eye, any more than anyone else."

Morgana felt a bit disconcerted at the idea, though of course it was logical. "But we have a common enemy…"

"There is that. He can have no love for the Pendragons, in any case." Morgause thought again, and Morgana waited. It had become abundantly clear, that year, that she had a lot to learn about tactics, from her sister. If she was going to try to form a pact with the stranger, she didn't want to make any mistakes. Any _more_ mistakes, if she'd approached their introduction poorly.

"We can offer nothing more substantial than his freedom, or assurances of future aid," Morgause decided. "None of Camelot's land or wealth."

She was talking like it was theirs, rather than Uther's still – and Arthur's next. They were only meant to hold the reins of the kingdom temporarily, while the younger Pendragon mended Camelot's ways and laws.

"Perhaps," her sister continued slowly, "if Uther and Arthur prove more resistant to change than you – than we, hope. Perhaps this prince of Caerleon can serve as gaol-keeper. He can bring them back to Caerleon and keep them indefinitely – that would be a considerable prize, a perfect revenge, and serve as the foundation of a profitable treaty with their kingdom."

Morgana frowned, imagining that possibility. "I'm afraid that would make Arthur less likely to agree to our requests before he takes the throne again. He can be very stubborn – if we gave both of them or even just Uther, he might refuse-"

"It might be for the best," Morgause interrupted, inspiration lighting her from within. "It would be much harder for anyone to plot a successful counterattack, if both royals were far absent from Camelot."

"Yes, but…" Morgana began to think it would be better – more straightforward – to remove the chain and let Prince Merlin make his own escape in the confusion of the battle. Call it a favor, one magic-user to another, and have that be the end of it.

Morgause whirled on her, black eyes sparking with that internal fire that Morgana both admired and found intimidating, that was so hard to resist. "I have other ideas of how to handle this prince with magic, but they require careful thought. You must return to Camelot to place the enchantment on Uther now, and speak with the prince tomorrow."

Morgana touched the oiled-leather bag uneasily, to make sure it wasn't leaking at all, that it was fastened securely to her belt, out of sight under her cloak. She didn't want any of whatever that was, to touch her skin or clothing.

"Find out if he _could_ be helpful, if he _would_ be helpful, and what he thinks about terms," her sister concluded. "All right?"

Morgana was tired, suddenly, and dissatisfied with the night. Why couldn't anything ever be simple? "All right."

"And be careful, sister," Morgause added, coming to her to grip her shoulders and lean her cheek against Morgana's in a swift, hard embrace. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

 _Nor I you_ , Morgana thought. But she only answered, with as much confidence as she could summon, "You won't."

"Courage. And do not doubt yourself, or our plan. And this will all be over soon, behind us, and our people will be free to live without fear." Morgause drew back, nodding to emphasize her words.

"Of course." Her sister shifted to attend the used cauldron and potion, and Morgana began to back away. As she left the cave, she added, "Good night…"

But Morgause didn't seem to have heard her.

* * *

 _As spring was dying into summer's heat in Arthur's twenty-first year, there was opportunity once again for the prince and the king's ward to cooperatively save the kingdom. A dispossessed noblewoman arrived with a strange skulking servant, and a seal of nobility to support her request for refuge. Gaius's suspicions were shared with Gwen to Lady Morgana – and finally to Prince Arthur, as the king was charmed thoroughly and swiftly. Within the week, he'd proclaimed the newcomer his wife and heir, over the prince's reservations._

 _The maid Guinevere, with the excuse of giving the guest quarters an extensive – needed – cleaning, found a suspicious potion. It was duplicated and exchanged, and the lady in question revealed herself for an actual troll – though unfortunately the king's enchantment was one of the eye as well as the heart. Further conspiracy, and potions, were needed – and Uther's tears over the perceived loss of his child served to break the spell. Morgana's childhood lessons in swordplay served her well enough to kill the inhuman servant, and Arthur himself dispatched the greedy scheming troll._

* * *

Arthur wasn't lurking. Nor was he skulking; that would be honorable for a hunter, but he wasn't hunting. He was… waiting unobtrusively for an opportunity to speak to a… a witness? a friend?... in private.

He'd been thinking about change. Because change was inevitable, over time, wasn't it. And especially when that time was one of stress, for any reason. He'd seen his father change, this year – some pounds were gone, some light from his eyes. The king had grown impatient with everyone, not just Arthur – contemptuously careless of Gaius, his council, and the whole cadre of knights. He'd seen Leon change from an uncertain novice into a knight quietly confident with command, a season and trusted warrior and friend.

The one person he thought had changed the most this year was the girl he was waiting for. Guinevere had gone from being her mistress's quiet shadow, dependable and loyal and obedient, to the physician's assistant, intelligent and authoritative when she needed to be. Twice this year she had argued him back to a sitting position when he'd denied the need for treatment of a minor wound – and he was not the only injured fighter she'd treated thus. She was the only one who could make him flounder for words, with those expectant dark eyes and those strong hands on her hips, and her black curly head tilted challengingly. She'd even addressed the council, once, in Gaius' absence, with calm self-assurance.

And now, how was it going to be for her, going back to her former work and identity as a lady's maid?

The chamber door in the alcove above him closed, quietly but firmly, and his heart thrummed anticipation. The footsteps tapping down the short curving stair were quick and light, not measured and confident, so he stepped out.

"Guinevere?"

Her lavender skirt swirled as she turned to him, taken by surprise. "Oh – Arthur – my lord, I didn't… see you there."

"I'm sorry I startled you - do you have a few minutes?" he said. "There's something I want to discuss with you…" Her hands were empty, so he figured it was an even bet that she'd been dismissed, rather than sent on an errand. Her mistress, he knew, hadn't emerged from her chamber yet that morning.

"Ah," she said, glancing down at her hands, then back at Morgana's closed door, before meeting his gaze shyly. "I guess I do." He gestured to the alcove by the window, and she added, following him, "Morgana isn't up yet. I brought in her breakfast tray and laid out her clothing… and then I tidied up and did some mending… and then I tried to inform her how late in the morning it was, and she said, _Go away, Gwen_."

He drew her to a halt beside the window, his back to the stair to shield her from any curious passing eyes as they spoke. "You're worried about her."

"I am." The corners of her mouth drew down, and she glanced at him as if wondering how much confidence she could share.

"It seems to me," he said deliberately, "as if Morgana hasn't changed at all, this year. That she's still her confident, assertive, outspoken self, and I cannot think how that could be if she was kept captive all these months…" He trailed off; Gwen was shaking her head.

"That's not what I see," she said in a low hurried voice. "I see she's completely changed. We used to talk about _everything_ , and now she doesn't really want me in the same room, alone. I can tell she's thinking almost constantly, about something very important to her that she's worried about, but she lies and says she's fine."

"So you think she's trying to act the same as we remember her," Arthur concluded, "so we won't suspect _how_ she's changed?"

Gwen nodded.

"But I imagine," Arthur went on, trying to be fair. He'd thought about how he'd act, coming back to Camelot after a year's absence. Maybe privation, maybe torture, maybe other things that happened to him he was ashamed of – and he figured he'd probably dismiss his manservant too, from an intimacy too vulnerable, thought they were nowhere near as close as Morgana and Gwen had been. He'd want to be alone or with so many people no one would pay him attention. And he'd hold tight to the façade of crown prince and act as expected, til it was true again. "I imagine I'd do the same, in her position."

Gwen's eyes shifted away, and she set her jaw just so; he interpreted the look.

"What else? There's something else?"

"Last night," Gwen said, slowly because she wasn't sure she should be telling him. "She dismissed me before I could help her ready for bed. And this morning… I could not find the gown she'd worn at dinner, nor the cloak that matches it."

Arthur gave her an uncomprehending frown.

"She took both garments to the laundresses herself, last night after I left. So what I thought," she explained, swaying slightly closer and glancing over his shoulder to make sure they could not be overheard, "what I thought was, what if she was not taken by an enemy, a year ago? What if she left voluntarily, secretly-"

"But why would she-" Arthur began.

"What if she was in love with someone the king disapproved of?" Gwen finished, eyes gleaming with something like hope. "And maybe last night she went to meet him, and didn't want anyone to guess?"

Arthur grimaced at the femininely romantic notion. "But you've said, you can't imagine who that might be, looking back at her behavior before she left. That she never had opportunity to meet someone, or continue meeting someone – and then there was no one else who went missing, like they'd eloped. And, that she'd never said one word to _either_ of us?"

"Yes, okay," Gwen agreed. "But if I was wrong? And if something happened recently – like the life she found wasn't what she wanted after all, and she left him to come home, but maybe now he's threatening her to return, saying he'll expose her somehow…"

"Gwen," Arthur said, protesting her embellishments with his tone.

"What if it was someone common-born?" she persisted, and added in a more cautious whisper, "Or someone with – _magic_? We wouldn't notice such a person missing, not like one of the knights or nobility. Maybe even someone at Trevena-"

"Impossible," Arthur said immediately. It had been one of their first places to look, when no trace of her was found and no ransom letter received. "She wasn't there – and Sir Acollyn has been traversing the wastes of the outer reaches of Albion, searching where she could have been kept hidden without rumors, or…" He remembered what Merlin had said about disguises with magic, and the possibility that they'd overlooked her, hidden in plain sight.

And she had been interested in the restricted magic of the hostage prince.

"Perhaps she hid elsewhere til your men had left Trevena satisfied she wasn't there," Gwen argued. "And Sir Acollyn's search was… I don't know, a cover of some kind. Even if he didn't know…"

"Regardless," Arthur said soothingly, brushing his palms briefly against her sleeves, and she closed her mouth to calm and listen. "You won't be able to force her to confide in you. All you can do is be supportive and understanding, and after a few days…" She nodded, biting her lip and focusing on the lacings of his shirt. "Maybe something else will come to light, and – we'll deal with whatever that is. You know… you're not alone."

Tears made her eyes brilliant when she lifted them to his, and his breath caught in his throat. "I still miss her," she whispered.

"I know you do," he said, his voice sounding hoarse, of a sudden. He tried not to look at her lips, or to remember the feel of them on his mouth and the memory of _invigoration_ that had followed… "So do I, really."

"I should go," she said, shaking out her mood like she twitched at her skirts. "I think I'll see if Gaius needs help with anything. Finding a new assistant, at least."

He smiled, watching her dip a curtsy and trot down the stairs, her footsteps echoing up to him light and familiar. At the bottom she cast a smile of her own up to him over her shoulder, and was gone.

And then he remembered he'd also intended to ask for her impressions of the hostage prince. According to Gaius, she'd tended Merlin briefly during his time in the stocks, and Gaius himself was being very closemouthed about the hostage. Thought that might have been pique, that he hadn't been consulted before his patient was imprisoned again.

Oh, well. Plenty of time to speak to Gwen again later – and a good reason to, also.

* * *

 _Following the scare and scandal of the troll, King Uther declared himself inclined to initiate a reprise of the Purge, perhaps to demonstrate and reinforce his authority in fact and in perception. Arthur was reluctant, but because both the court physician and the king's ward spoke emphatically against the proposal, the king was persuaded that a witchfinder was not a necessary person to add to Camelot's permanent staff._

 _The Midsummer Feast, in Arthur's twenty-first year, was interrupted by a lone warrior on foot, fully clad in plate armor, a person who refused to request an audience with the king with words, instead demanding attention by deeds of violence, from the portcullis to the doors of the banquet chamber itself. Revealing herself a woman, and giving her name as Morgause, she challenged Prince Arthur to single combat, which he succeeded in winning, despite his misgivings over fighting a woman. Before the disappointed Morgause left Camelot under banishment of the king, she confided in the king's ward, speaking of her ancestry – notably of the mother they shared, and how she had come to leave the family so precipitously and so young. Morgana was undeniably and understandably sympathetic and curious, but only the promise of future attempts at connection was possible, given the king's judgment on the ruthless and defeated challenger._

* * *

Merlin figured he'd made a mistake yesterday, by midmorning. By the time they brought his noon tray – cold chicken scraps, wilted greens and very stale nut-bread – he was sure of it.

Was it the quip about murdering them in their beds? or maybe the momentary magic to disarm Pendragon that they didn't trust, and wouldn't risk any more contact. No one had come but servants and guards, and none of them would talk to him.

He wandered his cell, around and around and back and forth, stretching his bruises and thinking of a hundred things he could do for simple pass-time, if he was allowed the use of his magic. He thought he'd rather have his hands chained and his magic free, than this.

And then, when a servant came to remove the tray from his midday meal, a guard entered his cell also, with two iron cuffs and a length of chain. A second showed at the door, hand ostentatiously on his sword-hilt, wordlessly warning Merlin to comply.

As if he couldn't have disarmed the first and overpowered the second to gain his freedom if he wanted, neck-chain or not.

"No, I didn't mean it," he said in dismay, resisting but minimally as he was pushed to the wall beneath the window-openings, his wrists captured in the iron cuffs and the chain locked to a ring bolted to the stone of the wall. "If Uther doesn't want his necklace back – it is very pretty but I'm nearly betrothed in my own kingdom – you could at least…"

The cuffs pinched as he reached for the departing guard – entreaty, and testing the strength of the metal, too. The guard ignored him, up the two stairs and through the door – but then, he didn't close it behind him.

Merlin straightened as the Lady Morgana, clad today in blue and purple silk, stepped into the doorway. She studied him; he let his hands drop and wished briefly that he'd been allowed a full bath and a change of clothes.

"The door will remain open," someone out of sight told the lady. "If you have need of us, just call."

"Thank you," she said coolly, not looking away from him. "I don't imagine I will."

Then she entered his cell, down the two steps, looking about – curious, but indifferent to what she saw. The fine hairs rose on the back of his neck, and an involuntary shiver chased a chill he didn't understand down his spine.

"If I'd known you were coming," he said, seeking refuge in gallantry, "I'd have cleaned up the place."

She smirked in response, and Merlin found himself intrigued, as yesterday, by the sense that she hadn't _suffered_ at all, the while Pendragon said she'd been gone. She sauntered closer to him obliquely, and a stray draft tickled his nose with a whiff of something that made his nostrils curl. Was that the waste-bucket round the little corner dividing his cell into vague halves? Surely not, it was empty. But maybe if it hadn't been rinsed or scrubbed – he hoped she'd keep her distance. Offending her sense of smell was far different a prospect than whatever offense he'd caused yesterday.

Yet… she'd come to his cell, seeking further contact. Should he apologize for the provoking statement?

"I came to apologize," the lady said – but her tone was arch, teasing. Not sincere. "I was merely curious about the restrictions on your magic, yesterday, but I don't suppose I asked the right questions. Or in the right way."

"You have no need for apology," he said. "I spoke out of turn. Murder is not a subject for levity."

Her eyes were green, he remembered, from being closer to her in direct sunlight. They flashed at him now, as if he irritated her for some reason. Didn't she have a sense of humor?

"I myself could not speak as freely as I would have liked, with Arthur standing right there," she said.

"Which is why you've come here today?" he guessed, playing along.

She tilted her head, and waves of glossy black hair rippled and shimmered. "Will you answer the question honestly? If that chain around your neck was removed, what would you do?"

"Did the prince send you to ask?" Merlin wondered, feeling a touch of disappointment, if Pendragon doubted his principles that much.

She lifted her chin slightly, scoffing at his assumption to deny it. Then repeated, "What would you do?"

"It would have to depend on the situation," he said, choosing to answer honestly. "Who was removing it, and for what reason." If it was Pendragon, releasing him from his hostage-oath, that was one thing. But if it was Uther, trying to keep the chain clean of blood when he had Merlin's head chopped off… well, that was different.

"What if Gaius knew how to remove it?" she suggested, moving to the opposite side of the cell. Keeping those green eyes on him, but coming no nearer. That smell stirred in the air again, and he tried to ignore it.

"It wouldn't really change anything," he said. Except that Uther would probably be furious that he was free, and seek to repress him again somehow.

"Meaning?" she challenged.

Maybe he'd misunderstood her yesterday. He wasn't a typical handsome prince, but there was a slight possibility she'd decided to cast herself as a lady of rescue, stealing keys to throw into cells for the romance of adventure and intrigue.

"I surrendered to Prince Arthur," he explained gently. "I rode a day and a half to get here, and spent a night in this cell before they put this on me."

"The _Endel-Easnes_ ," she said.

What an apt name - _endlessness_. "Even now, if I wanted my freedom, I could still plot and fight for it, without magic," he said. "But Arthur holds my bond. And contrary to what you might have been told, we in Caerleon do have a sense of honor."

"And especially if you're royalty," she said sarcastically, turning to wander to the back of his cell, where the bed was.

Somehow he had to distract her from wandering past that bucket, if she continued her circuit.

"What about your honor where your kin of magic are concerned?" she said.

Nerves tightened almost imperceptibly, all over his body. "Beg pardon, my lady?"

The skirt of her gown flared as she turned to face him, and spread over his dingy little mattress, as she dropped to sitting on the edge of it. "Uther is your enemy twice over, sorcerer," she said, clearly baiting him with hypotheticals. "If you had the chance to strike a blow for the justice long overdue your kind, how could you refrain?"

Again, it would depend on the situation. If those voices he'd heard his first night, waiting futilely for their savior Emrys, had belonged to living people, innocent of any true crime, he'd have affected their rescue and defense against Camelot, dispensing with any who stood in their way, king included. Something like that would go at least a little way to blotting out the stain of blood on his hands from the innocent villagers of Evorwick and Stonedown.

But if he woke at midnight with his neck bare, he wouldn't sneak on silent invisible feet to the king's bedchamber to plunge a dagger into his twisted, murderous heart. That wasn't his place, to be judge and executioner of any man, to decide who lived and who died. Not til he wore a crown of his own, anyway – and then, he knew, justice and mercy would have to temper each the other, and he hoped he'd be wise in the application of both.

"Why are you asking me this?" he said, instead of answering.

"What if…" She leaned forward slightly, eyes hooded with uncertainty – flicking to the empty doorway, and back to him. Her voice lowered a bit more. "What if war broke out in the citadel, and it seemed likely the Pendragons would be dethroned? Would you not take your chance to strike back against Uther? Even… indirectly?"

He tried to study her in return, to see past the beautiful Lady… to someone who'd been absent for a year and returned unscathed. _Who were you with this year, my lady, and what were you doing?_

"Again," he said, speaking slowly, "it would depend, on who was attacking, and why. If it were my own king and people, of course I would join them in the fight. If not…" He shrugged, affecting nonchalance, though he was curious to figure her out. And ignore the idea that his king would whole-heartedly approve of the use of his magic in any conflict, against Camelot. "Caerleon has no allies I'd be honor-bound to aid."

"Again," she said, mocking him slightly. "What of magic-users? Are they not your people, too?"

He breathed, running his fingertips around the edges of the cuffs at his wrists, without clinking the links of the chains together. The only convocations of magic-users he knew of were the druid clans, and the sanctuary city of Helva. And they would not initiate a military campaign.

"I am not aware of any such group with any measure of legitimate authority," he said mildly.

She made a face expressive of dissatisfaction and disdain, sitting back on his bed and looking away. "You speak like someone who has little, or weak magic," she bit off her words spitefully.

"And you speak like someone who has some experience with the subject," he said, suspicions dawning. "Where were you this year, my lady?"

She shot him a sharper, more honest look that cut through her contempt – but only for a moment. "Are you saying you're _not_ weak in magic? Not untaught or inexperienced? Are you saying that you'd join your kin of magic to overthrow a murderer and a tyrant? What might someone have to offer you in exchange?"

He stared at her, wishing he could read minds as easily as Alator. She was a stranger, he could not tell what her motive was, in this conversation. Whether this rhetoric was pretense, to trip him up in some continued test of Uther's? she was his ward, after all. And simply because Arthur hadn't known where she was, this year, didn't mean no one did. Or was she part of some other movement, more secret, more hidden? He was reminded of an old saying he'd learned in the fishing village on the coast of Caerleon, the cove their castle was named for.

 _Don't swim where you can't see the bottom._

His arms wouldn't quite cross over his chest, affixed to the restraining irons, but he leaned back against the wall, kicking out one boot in lazy indifference. "I'm not saying any of that," he corrected. "What happens in Camelot, or to Camelot, isn't my business. I'm Caerleon – and my king negotiates for me."

Her eyes narrowed. "I see," she said, surging up from her seat on his bed. "So that's why you and Arthur seem to get along so well – you're both the same. Afraid to stand on your own two feet and make your own decisions. You'd prefer to hide behind _the law_. Tradition and protocol, and unfeeling cowards."

"Hey," Merlin protested, pushing upright away from the wall. "That's both unfair and untrue, you're not-"

"You're a selfish bastard," she spat, stalking closer – though she kept out of the range of his reach, cuffed to the iron ring in the wall. "A traitor to your magic."

"You're wrong," he said, with calm anger.

"I don't know why I'm wasting my time," she said, sweeping blue and purple skirts past him. "I don't care what happens to you, anymore."

"Fare well, my lady," Merlin called after her, determined to show courtesy, even if she wasn't.

She ignored him. Head high, she exited the cell – and a moment later, it was closed and locked from the outside.

"Hey, I'm still chained to the wall?" Merlin called out.

The guards ignored him also.

Well, at least he'd distracted her from the stench of… Wait, no. The last few moments repeated themselves in his head and he wondered if perhaps that odor – as indelicate as the thought was – had come from her? He couldn't smell it in here, anymore.

And hells, he realized he'd managed to compound his own mistake. Now no one would be coming to visit him anymore…

* * *

 _As summer cooled into autumn of the seventeenth year of Prince Merlin of Caerleon, a bounty hunter with a cage-cart rattled into Beckon Cove on his way to Camelot. King Thurston was given the option of paying more for magical cargo than King Uther was offering; he summarily executed the hunter-slaver and turned the prisoner over to the prince and his tutor for analysis and restoration, if possible. The cursed druid girl was cured, eventually, and took up service in Beckon Cove._

 _The first month of autumn of Prince Arthur's twenty-first year, a convocation of kings and lords took place to discuss and sign a mutual treaty of peace. Prince Arthur inexplicably and carelessly demonstrated complete infatuation with the daughter of one of the visiting dignitaries, so much so that the physician and the king's ward expressed extreme skepticism of his sincerity. Reminded of the incident with another visiting lord and his daughter, and the enchantment that was broken at their execution, the prince's friends guarded both him and the subsequently enchanted lady from true indecency, and though the enraged father demanded single combat, the spell on Prince Arthur was broken in time for him to defend his life and apologize sufficiently for the honor of all involved. Neither the prince nor the maidservant Guinevere dared to address their first hasty spontaneous kiss in the prince's tent; it was meant to express sympathy and hope and conveyed more significance than either was ready to acknowledge._

* * *

 **A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.1 "The Tears of Uther Pendragon".  
**


	10. A Servant's Heart

**Chapter 10: A Servant's Heart**

Freya didn't realize where they were, when Halig's cart rocked to a stop with her in the locked cage that comprised the back of the conveyance. She barely realized they'd stopped at all; she was dizzy from hunger and thirst and numb from the rain. It was autumn, and the first bite of approaching cold could be felt in the dark and the wet.

She blinked, raising her head from the bare floor of the cage, huddling into her crossed arms, seeking warmth that wasn't there; her dress was in shreds from countless transformations, and hope had deserted her when Halig's fist first closed about her wrist.

His voice was audible but indecipherable. Her attention was caught by the stone surrounding them – not the vegetation of the forest, nor the wood-and-mud of a village. They appeared to be in a lane bounded by stone walls to eye level on each side – and there behind her, a great tower rose from a hill, black against the stormy dark of the sky.

It held little interest for her. She laid her cheek down on the rain-streaked floor of the cage as Halig spoke to the horses and the cart jerked forward. A moment later, the unexpected flame of a torch flared as they passed under some sort of protection, and the eyes of a figure wrapped in dark purple, standing there, watching them pass, glittered at her. Then they were in the rain again, rattling and tilting, and she closed her eyes – but the cart halted after only a short moment. She held herself still, but her ears remained alert.

Some time passed before she could make out voices, approaching. Then words – then recognition of one as her captor. Her tormentor.

"You see, Your Majesty, it is just as I have said. Magic, and possibly a weapon if wielded correctly. This creature-"

"I see no creature," a stranger rasped harshly, angrily, and she flinched. "I see a starveling girl-child."

"You need only wait for midnight, my lord," Halig interrupted, eagerly ingratiating. "She transforms into the most heinous beast, like a black cat with wings – and fangs! and claws! She's a killer, my lord, fierce and bloodthirsty, I swear! Why, she's murdered more than-"

Truth and despair shuddered through her frame. The bearded stranger grunted and leaned closer to peer at her, a hand on one of the bars.

"And, if I take her on to Camelot," Halig added slyly, "you know what Uther will do. Immediate execution, and all her potential wasted…"

"You've not wasted any coin caring for her," the stranger responded curtly.

"If I take her to Uther it's wasted, too," Halig protested. "And if you make the purchase, Your Majesty, you can well afford to feed her into peak fighting shape. She'll train easy too, in this form – all that's needed is a firm and ready whip-hand, and-"

The stranger turned away from Freya's cage, his hand dropping across his body to the hilt of the sword in his belt.

"Halig, that's your name?" he demanded, and drew the sword with a dull ring. "By my sovereign right, I pronounce you guilty of the crime of trading in human flesh, and for undeserved cruelty to a subordinate and a dependent. I sentence you to death, and carry out your sentence immediately – all your present property passes to the control of the crown of Caerleon. Maybe the gods receive your soul – for I surely won't tolerate it!"

As he spoke, Halig stumbled back, his face showing rain-slicked horror. Freya pushed herself up on one trembling arm, folding herself so that she could remain upright with little effort.

But no emotion touched her as the stranger – _Majesty, Caerleon_ – stepped forward and thrust his sword through Halig's throat.

He choked on the sharp steel a moment, eyes showing wide and white in the torchlight that hissed irritation at every raindrop. Then the bearded stranger withdrew his sword with an impatient gesture, and Halig tumbled lifelessly to the rocky ground, bleeding into the darkness and rain.

She expected it, but the stranger – the king? – didn't look at her. Instead he turned further away, bellowing to someone she couldn't see.

"Where's the prince? And his tutor? Fetch them, immediately!... Yes, and tell him she's _his_ , now!"

And with that, the bearded man began to stride away across the rainy, wind-whipped space, naked sword dripping at his side. Black spots flickered with the guttering torchlight in her eyes and she didn't know what to feel. Glad, relieved? or perhaps she was worse off, now, and didn't know it, yet. Two veiled warriors bent to seize Halig's arms, and dragged him off, out of her sight beyond the restive horses still hitched to the cart. Freya gulped, and scooted – painfully slow and weak – to where she was resting against the bars to hold herself up.

More voices approached.

"So he said what? What did he mean by that?" A male voice, and young; the response was a mumble she couldn't make out.

Two men were coming to the cage-door at the back of the cart – the one in white shirtsleeves reached up to the lock.

"Where's the driver? He had the key?"

Another mumble-mumble. The white-sleeved arm paused in lifting toward the lock; the dark head turned toward his companion to listen. Freya imagined he was being told what happened to Halig.

Silence. Then, as he turned back to the cage, his eyes gleamed magic-gold, and the lock rang metal-on-metal, springing open and off the latch. The cage-door shrieked into his hand, and it was the first time in three days her vision had been clear of those bars.

She didn't move.

"You're free now," the boy in the white shirt said. He made a motion like shaking rain from his face, and held out his hand. "Really, I promise. I won't hurt you – I want to help."

Belief stirred her heart, and something like stiff, rusty hope slowly uncurled to awareness again, prompting her to drag herself to the back of the cage, to the open door.

There was another swathed warrior beside him, and she hesitated – but the boy in white reached to assist her down off the cart. And even though the remains of her dress didn't exactly cover her, she was too exhausted for embarrassment, and simply clung to his forearms as his hands spread warm against her ribs. She shuddered, leaving the supportive floor of the cage, and her legs buckled under her as her bare bruised soles touched stone.

"Oh! Easy there," the boy said in surprise, his grip tightening as he pulled against her weight to keep her upright. His companion bent to aid him, and before Freya knew it, the boy had one white sleeve behind her back, and one under her knees, and she was resting in his arms.

"I'm sorry," she whispered; neither of them paid the least attention to her words.

"Let me take her," the man suggested.

"No, it's all right, I can manage," the boy said breathlessly. She was tense, feeling his body hard and taut against her – but her arms crept round his neck and her nose was only inches from his jaw, and she didn't want to let go. Raindrops traced down his skin and plastered his hair down in front of his ear; that was all of his face she could – or dared - see clearly.

"As Your Highness wishes," the man said, the title at odds with his casual tone.

The prince? was carrying her. She gulped air and let it out in a shiver of nerves and reaction – wanting to trust, fearing to trust.

The boy started walking, and she had the impression of speed and confidence, in spite of the burden she was to him. He said, with kindness in the words made brief by need for breath elsewhere, "I'm Merlin. By the way."

She didn't respond, only closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensation of movement – the cessation of raindrops and the indoor-echo of footfalls and doors slammed – compared to the motion of the cart-wheels tilting and jolting over uneven ground. And the subtle pattern of his breathing as he labored to carry her to his destination.

At one point he said to someone, "Go for my mother. She'll need food – and clothing. A bath and – a place to sleep."

They went up stairs, the strain in his muscles increasing to lift her weight again at every step, and she half-expected to be dropped, or ordered to walk on her own. Indoors, she was more aware of the soaked state of his clothing – and hers – and the heat that gathered between their bodies.

Then he said, "Get the door. Alator's inside?"

She opened her eyes as they passed through the doorway into something like an office, or a library – a schoolroom? Shelves lined the walls, though some held lit candles rather than books, and a long table with opposing chairs took up the middle of the room. The door closed behind them.

"Can I set you down?" the boy said in her ear. "What's your name?"

He dipped as he spoke, and her feet touched the worn cool wood of floorboards. Her legs held as he eased her upright, keeping his arm at her back. She loosened one arm from around his neck to reach to the tabletop for additional support, and balanced – and then looked at him.

Eyes so blue and deep and sincere she forgot to breathe. Full lips, stretched to smile, and straight confident lines of brow and nose, cheek- and jawbone. A handsome boy a year or so older than her – seventeen, maybe.

It was a momentary – but lasting – impression. Across the room, a door banged, and a full-chested man with no hair and piercing eyes came striding to them. Lips pursed in critical study; though he wore no enveloping cloak over long tunic and trousers and boots, the runes tattooed at his neck made her think _druid!_ and cringe back involuntarily against the boy.

The man immediately slowed his steps, raising his hands to show them empty. "Ssh, girl…" His voice was deep and gravelly, but not threatening. "A curse, was it? Be calm… we can help."

She wanted to believe him. But she'd wanted to believe others like him, and they'd turned on her. She shied away, twisting against the prince's arm – he didn't let go, and her eyes darted back to his face.

He smiled again, his eyes alight with assurance. He _believed_ ; Merlin believed they could help her.

Her nerves and muscles began to relax. Her lips trembled and her voice broke. "I'm Freya."

And he meant it when he said, "I'm pleased to meet you."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya hovered in the corridor, just outside the line of light spilling out through the door ajar. Inside she could see the queen, seated behind her desk but at an angle, so she could consult the book open on her lap before she wrote on the parchment open on the desk.

She squeezed her fingers, trying to convince herself just to tap on the door and request entrance. She'd never spoken to Merlin's adopted mother just the two of them in private, so she couldn't quite assure herself of the queen's reception. Annis must surely know of Merlin's feelings, but what did she think of their relationship? And what would it mean if the queen received her coldly, or dismissed her altogether? in spite of Merlin's assertion to the contrary.

Approaching footsteps drew her attention to the end of the corridor, where Maegden was hurrying toward her, carrying a stack of folded linens in her arms. Maegden saw Freya at once, and her lips curved in a ruefully sympathetic smile as she came closer.

"Just go in," she advised Freya in an almost-whisper. "Just knock and put your head in."

"I – but, I…"

Maegden ducked closer to Freya's ear briefly – "What would Merlin tell you?" – before pushing the door open further and entering the queen's chambers.

Freya could see him clearly, the brilliance of his eyes and the curve of his lips when he smiled, boyishly amused and endearingly oblivious of where her thoughts went, when he looked like that.

The warm and gentle mobility when he kissed her – sometimes breathlessly hesitant and sometimes with kindling hunger. The way his hands touched her – cupped her face or brushed the outside of her arms or spread against her back to pull her closer. And then her hands – the last barrier between them - would slip from the broad muscles of his chest to curl round his neck or reach down his back as he bent over her…

They'd come a long way in the last four months since he'd cornered her to stammer out, _I've never known anyone like you_ …

A very long way since the week of nights she'd spent in the schoolroom, and he was too focused on the magic and the challenge of breaking a curse declared impossible, to be self-conscious because she was a _girl_.

But she knew Merlin respected Annis highly, and valued the queen's opinion in return. And if Freya didn't want to end things with Annis' prince and _leave_ – and where would she go? – then this was her only choice. To seize her courage with both hands and make it serve her wishes.

Freya lifted her chin and hoped the tremors she felt on the inside were not visible on the outside. Stepping forward, she rapped her knuckles on the chamber door.

The queen turned from dismissing Maegden to a second door further in the chamber – and her features relaxed from expectation to understanding, if not welcome. Knowing the queen was never effusive with her affection anyway, Freya entered the room a few more steps – squeezing her fingers behind her back.

"Your Majesty, might I have a word?"

"Of course," the queen said, and pointing the feather end of her quill at a chair whose back stood against the outer wall of the chamber, almost sideways to her desk. "Give me a moment to finish this… I must say, though, I rather expected you before now."

Maegden gave her another sympathetic look over her shoulder as she exited through the chamber's second room behind Annis. The queen continued writing; Freya made it across the room and perched on the edge of the seat indicated to her.

Annis lifted a quick, arch glance. "Merlin has told me, you're shy."

"Yes'm, that's true," Freya said. "And I know I don't – actually have any right to ask, but…"

"But if you don't ask, you don't know." Annis dropped her quill into its holder and sat back, thumbing the pages of the book on her lap idly.

"Has there been any word from Camelot?" Freya asked, trying to keep desperation out of her tone. "Is there anything to be done? Anything I can do?"

"I'm going to wait to answer those questions," the queen answered, "til Hunith arrives – I've just sent Maegden to fetch her."

That was probably good – Hunith had been nothing but sweet and kind to Freya since her abrupt and rather violent arrival in Beckon Cove. Almost a second mother to her, too, after the loss of her own. They'd discussed the character of her son more than once – Freya praising and Hunith cautioning, or Freya questioning and Hunith explaining – and Freya never felt self-conscious about opening her heart to the older woman.

But to have both of them in the same room at once – both Merlin's mothers, when it was his future in question…

"He's quite taken with you," Annis added, with a quirk at either side of her mouth. "Of course you both are young yet to speak of permanency, but… have you considered it?"

 _It_ , she knew very well. The thought that sometimes dumped ice down her neck even when he was kissing her, or animatedly discussing some wholly unrelated topic and she was thinking about _more_.

"I try not to," she admitted, feeling her face heat and letting some of the desire to make a good impression slump from her body. "I know how I feel about him, but… I'm almost always sure that anyone else would make him a better… a better queen."

One of Annis' eyebrows arched. "Almost always?"

"Well…" She thought of the few young Ladies of Caerleon she'd encountered at various visits. "Sometimes I'm positive that no one can love him as well as me. And that whatever he needs, I can be that."

The queen made a thoughtful noise, and Freya hoped she wasn't wrong in hearing a pleased note, also.

"But now it's all so uncertain," Freya added, feeling misery threaten the corners of her eyes again.

"I've had a letter this morning," Annis told her – lifting her eyes to the door to add, "Come in and welcome, Hunith. I've had a reply from Alator."

"Oh, did you?" Hunith said immediately, joining them with graceful humility underlaid with confidence. Maegden followed her in, and began to drag another chair toward the desk; Hunith turned to help her, and position it herself before sitting and leaning forward with an eagerness that set her long gray-touched braid swaying slightly over one shoulder of her moss-green dress.

Freya reflected that he hadn't even known the queen contacted Merlin's former tutor; _well, if you don't ask_ …

"I wrote," Annis explained to Freya, "to Alator, to see if he would consider infiltrating Camelot to aid Merlin's escape, should that be his wish, or need."

"And?" burst from Freya's lips.

The queen pressed her mouth slightly, a fine wrinkle appearing between auburn brows that matched the thick fall of hair bound down her back by a circlet. "He writes that, by his reckoning, Merlin is where he belongs at the present moment in time. Destiny moves in unforeseen ways, but always in the right direction. His words, not mine."

"What does that mean?" Hunith asked – calmly enough, but Freya saw her knuckles were white, clasped in her lap. "That he will not, or cannot go?"

"One or the other, the result is the same," the queen said.

"Perhaps I could go?" Hunith offered. "Not to aid any escape, though I would, but at least to offer some comfort, if I can? The court physician is known to me, maybe I could-"

Freya's hopes – and one yet unexpressed, _me too?_ – fell again when Annis shook her head decisively. "Gaius will help no one but himself unless he is allowed to by his king," she said sardonically. "And Hunith – perhaps Merlin would be glad to see you, if you could manage it. But perhaps if he is making plans, your presence would prove… more cumbersome, in the end? If he is forced to consider your safety as well as his own."

"Oh, yes," Hunith said, her own brows drawing gently together. "I… hadn't thought of that."

After a moment, the queen sat forward, keeping the book on her lap but laying one hand flat on the desktop for emphasis. "Dear ladies. We love him and we worry, but I assure you – the king and I are quite confident that he can protect himself, even there, and whatever may come of his surrender and captivity, be it shorter than we hope or longer than we fear, he will allow no serious or lasting harm to come to himself."

She hadn't said, no harm at all. Freya's heart cringed to think of her prince, vociferously sarcastic to cover his uncertainty, discouraged and distressed and surrounded by his enemies.

"And that is all?" Hunith asked, sounding dreary; her voice caught in her throat.

"We will just have to wait on Camelot's messenger, and address that issue when it arrives," Annis said, with an air of finality. "But it might comfort you to know, Sir Tythan has offered any number of contingencies. We are not helpless, but for now… we must exercise patience, first."

* * *

Gwen had a scar on the outside of her arm, a few inches above her elbow, from the one time Elyan persuaded her to duel with the fire-irons.

 _Just hold yours_ , he'd said, _and I'll hit it with mine_ … And he did, the vibrating iron stinging her hands with every enthusiastic _thwack_! Until he'd gotten carried away, and forgot to aim for her weapon. And ruined her dress-sleeve, and she'd cried and bled til her father came in from the forge – and yelled til she was scared, too, and lied so Elyan wouldn't get in trouble…

She covered the scar with her hand on her sleeve and rocked nervously on her toes, focusing on the patterns of the changing screen which hid her mistress.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she said hesitantly.

"Of course I'm sure! This is the best idea I've had since… since I've come to Camelot." Morgana stuck her head around the side of the changing screen. "Except for when I chose you to be my maid. Hand me the trousers."

Gwen passed the garment to the younger girl. She disappeared again, and Gwen cast an eye around the room to see if any chore of cleaning or tidying jumped out at her; honestly the duties of a maidservant weren't really any different from what she'd already been doing at home for her father and brother. "It's just… it can be dangerous, using a sword," she added. "Learning how to use a sword. And ladies usually don't…"

"The king said I could," Morgana declared decisively. "What about a belt?"

"It's hanging over the screen there behind you – on the last panel." Table and floor swept; dishes and laundry taken out for cleaning; bed made… okay. "But why do you _want_ to?"

"Because Arthur ignores me." Morgana twirled out from behind the screen, her tiny waist half the circumference of Gwen's, long black curls flying out behind her as she spun. "How do I look?"

"What do you mean, Arthur ignores you?" Gwen asked, touching the short fuzzy tail that stuck out from the back of her head self-consciously. And, "Do you want me to braid your hair? That will keep it out of your way, at least."

"Yes – good idea." Morgana hopped to her dressing stool and perched; Gwen followed and picked up the hairbrush from the dresser-top. "You've seen him at dinner, and lessons."

Gwen felt her face heat, and focused on drawing the soft bristles through Morgana's fine dark locks. The prince was a handsome boy, but she hoped no one had noticed how she watched him – would she get in trouble?

"He's very quiet," she ventured, "but he speaks to you politely enough." Even when her mistress was being deliberately provocative.

"Humph," Morgana said, flouncing on the stool; Gwen had to pass the brush through her hair again to divide it evenly for braiding. "He ignores me. He doesn't meet my eyes, and he doesn't ask me things. He only says what his father or Lord Geoffrey tell him to – and otherwise he's always on that training field and you've _seen_ how he acts there!"

She had. Gwen kept her eyes conscientiously on smooth, even plaiting, glad that a blush wasn't obvious on her face. Arthur was someone else when he was out-of-doors – not quiet, or polite – but she suspected it had more to do with the king's influence on his behavior than Morgana's.

"I'll learn the sword," her mistress declared, sitting straight. Her eyes flashed at Gwen in the mirror like gemstones. "I'll practice every day, more and more and harder and harder, til I can beat him." Gwen couldn't quite stop a doubtful grimace, forgetting that Morgana could see her reflection, also. "I can! Don't you think I can?"

"I think…" Gwen paused, reaching for a ribbon to wrap securely around the last curl at the bottom of the braid. "I think you can do anything you set your mind to," she finished honestly. "But they say he's good – and why do you want to be better than him, anyway?"

"Because…" She wiggled on the stool impatiently, but the end of the braid stayed in Gwen's hand, swaying as she tied it. "Because everyone else will already give me what I ask for, and do what I tell them…"

Gwen held her breath, and very deliberately did not roll her eyes. The Lady Morgana, her mistress now for the better part of a year, was what she might have called _spoiled_ in a stranger. Her statement was perfectly true, and if Morgana was a thoroughly self-centered person, it might have been a terrible thing – and impossible for Gwen to work as her maidservant. But her eyes would flash and demands would pour forth when she encountered a kitchen-boy whipped for some minor infraction or the runt of a litter on its way to the mill-pond, just as fast as concerns for herself. It was one of the reasons that people did allow her to request and direct as she did.

"Except Arthur," Morgana added. Gwen let go of the braid, and Morgana turned her head to study her reflection critically. "But if I'm better than him with a sword, I can _make_ him do what I say."

Gwen doubted. She was sure there was a flaw in the reasoning somewhere – and wondered briefly why such control over those around her was so important to Morgana.

Til she remembered how she'd felt, years ago when they told her, Mama wasn't going to wake up, nor to get better from being ill in the bed. It had felt like falling – like there was nothing to hold on to, and no one to catch her or hold her, and any moment the fall would stop suddenly and painfully…

Maybe this was Morgana's way of reaching out for some stability. And if Gwen hadn't had Father and Elyan, or if she'd had strangers trying to replace her father and brother…

"I think you might be going about this the wrong way," she said, following as Morgana leaped up and skipped to the chair by the door for her boots. "Elyan and I used to argue all the time, we couldn't get along. And I could never be better than him, or stronger or older or taller…"

"You get along fine with your brother now," Morgana tossed out, knotting the laces in her haste. "Anyway Arthur isn't my real family."

"I know." Gwen knelt on the floor at her feet to untangle and lace the boots properly. "But… I mean… it wasn't until I quit trying to be better, and he realized…"

"What did he realize?" Morgana asked, sounding interested.

 _That he could really hurt me without even meaning to_. "That…" Gwen stumbled over her thoughts and words, "That I cared about him, too." Enough to lie for him, rather than tale-bear.

"Well, I _don't_ care about Arthur," Morgana declared, flipping her braid over her shoulder as she jumped up and spun to the door. "And I _am_ going to beat him."

Gwen sighed, and made to rise and follow. "Yes, my lady."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen followed Morgana from the receiving chamber, having to hurry to keep her in sight, and ducking past several upset courtiers with a murmured apology, til they reached an otherwise deserted gallery, and Morgana's steps finally slowed in the morning light from the row of windows.

"My lady?" she called softly, daring to approach.

Morgana leaned on her hands on the balustrade, staring blindly down at the lower levels, galleries open to the enclosed courtyard beneath. She was white as a sheet, her jaw clenched.

Gwen wondered whether the scene in the receiving chamber had disturbed some memories for Morgana, too. The king had neglected, then interrupted Arthur's report on mercenaries at Cenred's border with a look of fear; rising from his throne, he demanded to be left alone. For a moment Gwen thought he was speaking to the prince, but everyone had followed Uther's pointing finger – to an empty spot of flagstones before the open doors. He began shouting, and Arthur and Leon had acted immediately to drag him from the room, followed by Gaius.

"I'm so sorry," she said in a low voice, leaning on her elbow a short distance from her mistress – facing Morgana, rather than the drop over the white stone rail.

"Why should you be sorry," Morgana responded dully.

"It must be hard to see him like this," Gwen suggested. Because she didn't feel any personal connection to the king, and her duty was to Lady Morgana over any other, even the one who was probably most dismayed right now, the man's son – and Arthur was with his father at the moment.

Morgana made a cynical noise. "What do you think he saw?"

"What – do I…" Gwen didn't know how to answer.

Morgana lifted her chin and turned to her with a flash of dark eyes, and the emeralds at ear and throat that matched the green silk of her dress. "Last night at the banquet…"

Gwen remembered. Uther had seemed a bit unsteady in his toast, delirious with joy or wine or both – and Arthur had teased him in front of everyone. The prince reclined in his own high-backed chair, lazily satisfied like Gwen hadn't seen him in a very long time. And moments after the king had stumbled out to the side courtyard for air or well-water, they'd heard screams. Of course the guards had surrounded their king first – but then Gaius, and Arthur, and Morgana, had not been far behind.

"He said first, _leave me alone_. And then threatened to have someone hanged, whoever or whatever he saw," Morgana continued, sounding almost savage. "Perhaps an enemy. The ghost of someone who considered himself wronged, come for revenge. But Arthur said, last night evidently he'd seen a vision of Queen Ygraine. Why would he see _her_? Why would that torment him?"

"I don't know," Gwen said truthfully.

It made her stomach twist to think of anyone moved to such screams, or the growling threats edged with panic she'd just heard – but when it was the king, everyone was unsettled. Obvious questions regarding competence arose.

"But it doesn't do anyone any good to be anxious," she added. It was only a few days since Morgana's return to Camelot, but because she seemed unchanged, everyone looked to her as they always had, gauging truth in rumors and making assumptions about the well-being of the royal family. "I'm sure it's not because of you."

Morgana inhaled swiftly, straightening like she'd been insulted – or attacked.

Drat – she'd misunderstood. Sometimes Gwen forgot that she and Morgana weren't _close_ anymore. Or, yet.

"I mean," she floundered to explain. "We were all under a lot of stress this year, we were worried about you. The king pushed everyone so hard, and sometimes called for Gaius in the middle of the night, I guess he wasn't sleeping much, or well, it's no wonder he's finally falling ill, if that's what it is, but that's not _your_ fault, of course."

"How could it be my fault?" Morgana snapped unhappily.

Because she did blame herself, Gwen recognized. That was when Morgana was at her most defensive, when she felt guilty, but she'd never been taught that genuine apology cleared the air like nothing else. Given her guardian, it wasn't surprising – but this time, she shouldn't have anything to feel guilty about.

"Would you like me to go check on His Majesty?" she offered. "I could bring you whatever news there is…"

"Yes, fine." Morgana tossed her hand in a careless gesture of dismissal. "Take your time, though. I'm going to lie down to rest, and I'd prefer not to be disturbed."

"Yes, my lady." Gwen bobbed a curtsy, and watched Morgana stalk away down the gallery.

She even walked differently. Instead of gliding, comfortable and confident in silks and slippers, she stomped like she hated the fancy delicate footwear, and wore her expensively beautiful gowns of before like they now chafed.

Poor Morgana. All of this year weighing on her with none to help if she wouldn't trust them – and now the king's developing condition on top of that.

But at the moment, Gwen felt more impatience than pity. How was she supposed to help Morgana carry her unknown burdens if she wasn't allowed to? And would Morgana become ill in the same way as Uther, or some other way, if she didn't have _some_ surcease?

She turned to retrace her steps past the receiving chamber, to the corridor where the king's quarters were located. To be told by the guard at his door, _The physician is with him – no visitors, no questions, no interruptions. And the prince? Just down the hall in his own chamber._

Gwen smoothed her embroidered apron over her lavender dress and took a deep breath before continuing down the hall. Her relationship with the prince was hard to define, if royalty could only have friends among their peers. It was different than with Morgana; this year Gwen had given Arthur orders when he was injured, and he'd obeyed. She'd seen him exhausted, discouraged, disrobed for treatment. And several times she suspected, they'd come very close to duplicating the hurried kiss in his tent that had freed him from enchantment in time to survive his encounter with King Olaf a year and a half ago.

She paused before Arthur's door, fist lifted to rap her knuckles against it. That day, Arthur had made a public apology for something that wasn't really his fault – and the kingdoms had remained allies, peace treaty signed.

Where had Arthur learned that? Maybe it was something he inherited from his mother.

But when she knocked, she discovered that the door wasn't latched firmly, as if it had been slammed and rebounded an inch or two. Instead of tapping clearly, her fist only shuffled the door open several more inches. Inside she heard his voice in a muffled exclamation, and another soft _slam!_ like a book on a table.

Hesitantly she pushed on the door, enough to slide half her body through the opening. "Arthur?"

He was slouched behind his desk, which was scattered with papers – several of them also on the floor. At the sound of her voice, he jerked upright, reaching toward the book sprawling open on his desk. But his eyes, widened in alarm, were focused on her, and he only succeeded in knocking the book to the floor on the other side of his desk.

"Guinevere!" he said.

She loved the way he said her full name sometimes – when he was surprised, like now – and she was halfway across the room before she realized he hadn't actually invited her in. He leaped up from his chair as she knelt to pick up the book for him, and his papers – ever the maidservant's instincts, and the reason she'd forgotten protocol to begin with.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said.

"That's all right, you don't have to do that, I was just-" He reached for the book.

She shifted the papers together and tucked them behind the book for neatness, babbling on. "Morgana was upset by – what happened this morning, so I said I'd try to find out if there's any news from Gaius. She was going to lie down, and Gaius is still with your father and honestly, even with all I've learned from him this year, I can't think of any illness which might possibly result in-"

As she spoke, her eye fell on the cover of the book. Wine-colored leather with embossed symbols that made no sense to her. And the prince's attitude was apprehensive consternation, inordinate impatience to have the volume back in his hands, but…

She frowned, and her thumb edged over the pages to open it. There were more such indecipherable symbols, but a few lines of text caught her eye. _The spell of… with which one… of a thing may be…_

A book of magic.

Why on earth would Arthur Pendragon have a book of… _Oh!_ She met his eyes. "Do you think, your father's illness – do you think it's a _curse_?"

"Or an enchantment, perhaps." The prince's body deflated with a sigh; he'd been trying to keep her from discovering the nature of his suspicions – or just the book, maybe. In normal times, he might be in a lot of trouble for having such a thing in his possession – and she might be in a lot of trouble for not reporting him. But with the king so… ill, the prince was probably relieved someone else that he trusted, knew what he was thinking.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, hefting the book. There were signs of wearing around the edges – used, then, but also cared for.

"It's Merlin's," he said, and his voice sounded odd.

She looked at him; he looked back, like he was waiting for her to come to the same realiza… oh. She moved forward slowly, laying the book on the desktop as he relaxed back to sitting in the chair. "Do you think… that _he_ did something to your father?"

"It's a hell of a coincidence," Arthur said. "My father has him publicly beaten – and two nights later he's seeing ghosts? Today, in public, seeing things that aren't there and _reacting_ in front of the whole court?"

"But that necklace thing," Gwen objected. "He can't do magic. And if he could, why not defend himself, instead of… _this_?"

"It would be an unexpected tactic, for a barbarian," Arthur agreed. "And otherwise he's been honorable. But he might have managed a bit of magic while we were sparring, and… suppose it's all been a show, so he can get inside the citadel for something like this?"

Gwen shifted her eyes from his face so she could concentrate on her one memory of the prince of Caerleon. "I would hate to believe it of him," she said slowly. "I want to like him. He was polite, and funny. He told me he was in love with a girl, back home in his kingdom."

"I want to like him, too," Arthur admitted in a low voice. Eyes on the book, and he reached to pass a thumb over the roughly-cut corners of the pages.

It occurred to her how lonely he looked, how far from the picture he'd made at the feast. Even though the whole kingdom celebrated their victory last night, recovering their lost Lady, even though he'd formed solid relationships with several of the knights over the last year… when something like this happened, he probably couldn't help but feel isolated from everyone who was _not_ the kingdom's next heir. Morgana wasn't the same friend she'd been. And Gwen was just a servant. And even Leon wouldn't presume to be a friend, unless Arthur said it first - and he was too proud for that, maybe.

But Merlin was also a prince. And maybe the kings of Camelot and Caerleon were enemies and held grudges – but that didn't mean the princes had to.

"Sire," she began tentatively.

He tilted a grimace up at her – _no titles, Guinevere, not when we're alone_.

"Perhaps your father's illness _has_ been caused by magic, somehow," she said. "But it doesn't necessarily follow that it's been caused by Prince Merlin. Gaius would probably know if magic was involved, but if he can't say with certainty…"

Arthur inhaled his eyes thoughtful. "Merlin would be the obvious suspect – but sorcery is hardly ever obvious, in our experience, is it. If Gaius can't tell, or if he can but doesn't know a cure…"

She spoke the treasonous thought for him. "Maybe Merlin can help."

Fingers drummed and the silver ring he wore on his forefinger tapped softly on the book's binding. "Gaius is familiar with Merlin's family, and they seem to have accepted the connection. If he is causing this illness with magic, perhaps Gaius can get a confession out of him. And if he isn't the source… maybe Gaius can persuade him to help."

"Even just to give advice," Gwen suggested encouragingly, not liking the look of distaste on the prince's face.

Arthur sighed and repeated, "Even just to give advice."

He pushed himself up from his chair and came around the desk, leaning his hips back against it and taking one of her hands in his. She held very still, even as her heart leaped and fluttered.

"Thank you, Guinevere," he said, his voice betraying the gruff undertone of sincerity and emotion. He watched her fingers as he toyed with them, and the flutters of her heart sent a tingling message outward through all her nerves. "This whole year, you have been… invaluable to me. I don't know what I would have done without you."

She wanted to hug him. It wasn't the first time she'd felt that particular desire, either.

"I'm glad to help," she whispered, and it was true. Where would any of them be if their future king had given in to despair, or conversely protected his heart by allowing an unfeeling layer of ice to form and remain? She'd seen both extremes threaten him, more than once that year. "I live to serve, my lord."

Oh, what a stupid thing to say. She felt her face and neck heat up, but the smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth was worth it.

"As do I," he said. "For what is a prince, or a king, but a servant of his people?"

And that was why everyone loved him so much. She swayed toward him, shyly opening her mouth to say that – or something more – but a voice behind her interrupted.

"Court physician, my lord." A guard, leaning in the door – she'd forgotten that it was half-open, and blushed again, snatching her hand back.

"Excuse me," she said to the prince, dropping a little curtsy and retreating to the door.

"Guinevere," he called.

She paused; the door opened further to admit Gaius, halting in place as he sensed he was interrupting, one white eyebrow lifting curiously.

"You have been a very good example," Arthur concluded, with a self-conscious half-smile.

The remark of praise warmed her in places the embarrassment did not, and she knew she'd needed that, too, after the internal struggles trying to reclaim the relationship she'd had with Morgana – though beginning a new one might meet with more success.

She smiled at Arthur, nodding in another gesture of gratitude and respect; he was a very good example of self-sacrifice, too. She turned her steps toward Morgana's chamber resolved to be patient once again, more understanding and supportive, in spite of her mistress' secrets standing between them.

 _I live to serve._

 **A/N: So my knee surgery is Thursday (outpatient, orthoscopic, no worries). Don't know yet whether that'll mean more or less time to spend writing, so the next update might be delayed…**


	11. Sovereign Choice

**Chapter 11: Sovereign Choices**

Annis had spent the first hour of the day circumnavigating the palisade enclosing the tower and the bailey. The walkway was even with the roofs of the stables, bakehouse, and the barracks halls, but her eyes were turned outward to their land more often than inward to the inhabitants of Beckon Cove, anyway.

She saw more gray than green, in the landscape, more rocky angles than grassy curves. Over the last few years she'd wondered occasionally if Merlin's magic might do something about it, like he claimed and begged to be allowed to try. But unlike the prince who'd been born in a farming village, Thurston's whole life had been focused on warfare as the only sure method of enrichment upon which time and effort should be expended. His impatience with Merlin's interest in husbandry and agriculture dovetailed with his impatience with his heir's disinclination for violence.

To the southwest was the sea. To the north, the inlet which connected to the River Rusk, and across it, Camelot's estate of Trevena.

Annis wandered on around the northern curve of the wall toward the east and the far distant border with Camelot. One of the warriors stood atop the palisade overlooking the training ground; his face wasn't recognizable at the distance with enveloping indigo turban and cloak, but she knew who he was before she came close enough to see him clearly.

"Good morning, Tythan," she said, coming to lean on the palisades' inner wall beside him.

"Majesty," he said briefly, sparing her a glance from the scuffling warriors spread out below him.

"How are the men today?" she asked, looking for but not seeing her husband among them.

"A bit tense," Tythan allowed. "His Majesty hasn't been happy the last few days. Makes for shorter tempers and more injuries."

Five days, more specifically, Annis was well aware. Since this warrior had returned to report the loss of their heir to rival Camelot. For a moment they were both silent, watching the men bludgeon each other's shields with blunted weapons, or dodge each other's fists in unarmed matches.

Then Tythan added unhappily, "I shouldn't have left him. Prince Merlin, I mean. We should have died, and he should have escaped."

"You know that would have grieved him deeply," Annis commented. She herself might have wished her boy to fight a little harder for freedom, and under his gruff demeanor Thurston remained completely bewildered about the choice of _surrender_ , but there was no way to guess now, how this might end. In their favor, she hoped.

"There's quite a few of the younger warriors who were proud of being beaten by their prince, in practice," Tythan mentioned, still focused on watching the warriors. "And I don't know a one who wasn't proud, too, of his having magic. Do you think he knew that."

"We sent the most resistant warriors on this raid on purpose," Annis said. Probably Tythan had realized that at the time, but she was sure Thurston wouldn't have said so out loud to any of the men.

"Well, a man's first raid shouldn't be _easy_ ," Tythan agreed.

"Mm hm."

"But now, though, ma'am, there's been some uneasiness about him alone in Camelot. What they might do. What he might do – and no one to watch his back."

"Merlin is smart, and patient," Annis said softly.

"Course he is. You taught him well, Majesty. The muttering is more about… our reputation, than the prince's. That we just leave him…"

"In Camelot the warrior has to perform a solitary quest before he is knighted," Annis remarked thoughtfully.

"In Caerleon the warriors travel and fight in bands," Tythan countered.

And patience wasn't a virtue espoused by most in her kingdom. Maybe under Merlin's leadership someday it would be different, but for now… no, she doubted that the men would be content to wait indefinitely for Merlin to make his move and return himself covered in glory. The problem was, the king would never authorize an incursion onto Camelot's soil – and Tythan himself wouldn't take his few men ghosting to the interior of the enemy kingdom without her permission. Because they couldn't hope to take Camelot's citadel, or defeat their army, and because trying _and failing_ was likely to make things very difficult for Merlin, without improving them for anyone else.

That thought made her turn her back on the training grounds and look outward again, away from Beckon Cove toward the border with Camelot, where…

"Two riders are approaching," she said.

Tythan straightened immediately, twisting to follow her gaze. Without saying anything, he reached under his cloak for a far-seeing glass, and put it to his eye. Annis squinted; her eyes weren't what they used to be, but she was sure she saw a flare of crimson.

About time. "Is that who I think it is?"

Tythan handed her the glass. "They're wearing red and approaching from the northeast. I can't see the crest but the probability is, messengers from Camelot."

Annis couldn't make out an insignia on their matching red tunics, either, but the horses were above average quality, and both men wore mail-armor that glinted in the morning sun.

"Find the king and let him know," Annis told Tythan. "Have the messengers shown to the guest-quarters in the barracks. I'll be waiting in the receiving hall when they've refreshed themselves."

"Yes'm," Tythan said, inclining his head as he moved past her. She held out his far-seeing glass as he passed, and he tucked it back inside his cloak without slowing.

Annis remained on the palisade until the riders had entered the stony lane that led to the gate, before descending. The warriors had completed their daily training and had gone on about the duties of caring for and storing their armor and weaponry, folding themselves back into the routines of guarding and patrolling; there would be a second such session in the afternoon for those who were otherwise occupied with duties this morning. She strode across the emptied grounds, up the hill to the tower, and through the double-doors.

"M'lady?" Maegden called across the hall to her, halfway down the stair to the royal quarters.

"I'll be in the receiving hall til noon, if you'll gather my correspondence and current reading selection there," Annis told her. "Visitors from Camelot have been sighted – have Hunith attend me, and tell her to order a light repast for our guests, from the bakehouse."

Maegden understood immediately; it was one of the reasons she was still – and probably always would be – the queen's handmaiden. "Right away, ma'am."

So Hunith would be there when Annis met the pair from Camelot, and heard what they had to say – and Freya, who worked as an assistant in the bakehouse.

The receiving hall was one of the lightest, airiest rooms in the castle. Five windows followed the curve of the eastern wall, and the white-washed walls reflected the light, where they weren't covered by six-foot shelves holding general-interest books or scrolls and writing materials, or collections of glass vessels – or groups of paintings Annis had been gifted, or inked herself. Some few portraits, but more landscapes of places she'd been that caught her fancy. It was a room where guests could expect to spend a whole day without boredom or discomfort – cushioned seats for conversation or individual pursuits, a six-person table for gaming or dining. Potted plants that Maegden or Hunith tended, and Merlin wasn't allowed to supplement in any way.

Maegden brought her the materials she requested – along with assurances that Merlin's mother and sweetheart would be on hand – and she was just leaving again when Tythan entered, his turban unwrapped and draped about his neck like a scarf. He looked uncomfortable, and then he bowed. And didn't meet her eyes.

And said, "Your Majesty…"

She sighed. "What is it, Tythan?"

"The king has taken half a dozen of his best men on a hunting trip. I am not certain when they departed, but evidently His Majesty expects to be absent several days. I have undertaken to express his regrets that he neglected to mention the excursion to you."

"Careful, Tythan," she growled. "You sound like a statesman – and you know I know what really happened."

Thurston's hunting trip probably hadn't been planned til the messengers showed. And even if he'd considered this tactic in advance, he wouldn't have told her – so she could be properly and honestly apologetic and not complicit. So she couldn't scold him out of it, or be offended if he went ahead with it anyway. It was the tactic he'd used in abandoning the fortress of Fyrien rather than face Uther and be forced to ink his name on paper to make an agreement that further hurt his kingdom. Avoid, delay – and wait and hope for something else to shift the balance of dominance.

In this case, it bought them – and therefore Merlin – a few more days before a demand had to be considered, and eventually answered. Before they had to pretend to consider capitulation in some element – and pretense never sat well with Thurston. In the meantime, Annis would hostess diplomatically.

"Never mind," she decided, straightening her spine and pulling her hair behind her shoulders. "Show in our guests when they're ready, and _I_ shall deal with them. For the time being."

This time, he managed a smile, and the slight bow of his head was genuine. "Yes, my lady."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur didn't get a chance to speak to Gaius until late afternoon, about his father's illness and Merlin's potential involvement – cause or cure.

The court physician was – to Arthur's mood of tense impatience – irritatingly enigmatic. Perhaps the king's illness was magical in nature, perhaps the prince of Caerleon might be of help. He seemed more interested in pressuring Arthur to commit to assuming a regent's authority.

"I am sure that, over time, he will recover," Gaius said – and his words failed to reassure Arthur. "But until then, we have to make plans."

Arthur stopped dead in the middle of the corridor. The old physician continued one more slow measured step before halting also to raise an eyebrow at him.

"Plans," he said sardonically. Because Gaius' position on the council was advisory – but not in _political_ matters.

"We need you to assume control," the old man stated.

Arthur took a deep breath, shifting to rest his back against the wall between tapestries, and crossed his arms over his chest to hold everything where it belonged. Control beyond what he already held and used… was the throne. He couldn't even manage to deny the statement, to brush it off with an acceptable affectation of carelessness.

Gaius shuffled a little closer, so that the flowing stream of passing servants and attendants wouldn't divide them. "Camelot needs a leader – it falls to you. You must fulfill your role as regent, and this is not just me talking. Members of the court have spoken."

His heart and his stomach both ached – for regret, for a mix of uncertainty and inadequacy. "So now you've taken to whispering behind my back?" he said in a low voice. Because whispering always went on, behind everyone's back, but this was _Gaius_ , and this was _him_ , and this was _now_. "What kind of treason is this? I'm not going to usurp my father!"

Because he _could_. And part of him _wanted to_. But what would happen when – not if – his father regained his senses? That sort of strife could destroy a kingdom from within just as swiftly as an enemy army could destroy it from without.

"It's for the good of the kingdom," Gaius said. "The palace is awash with rumors, the people are restless…"

"Of course it is, and of course they are," Arthur said crossly. "And now is the very last time to be making the sort of changes you suggest. I swore allegiance to my king, and as long as there is breath in his body, it is my duty to uphold that."

And if he did, someday if and when it was his turn to be absent in mind or body, then he could expect the same sort of loyalty from his own heir.

"Arthur, please," Gaius said, reaching for the sleeve of the dark blue shirt he wore beneath his leather vest, left informally unfastened.

"You are giving up on my father," he said. "That is something I will never do – Gaius, I will make it an order if I must, but please… please go now to the cells and do your best to discover if the prisoner can shine any light upon the king's illness."

The old man straightened, pressing his lips together, and in that moment, Arthur registered the approach of one of the knights – tall, broad-shouldered, chain-mailed figure in the side of his vision. Just as Sir Leon raised his voice.

"Sire?"

Leon had been sent with a patrol to the border, to ascertain what truth there might be to reports of mercenaries amassing in worrying numbers. Arthur held up a finger to Gaius, to indicate that their conversation would be interrupted by the knight's testimony, and turned to face Leon.

In one second he read in the expression of his normally taciturn friend, the truth of the situation. He said reflexively, "How long do we have?"

"I estimate the forerunners can arrive by nightfall tomorrow," Leon said, joining them and drawing himself into a respectful attitude. He glanced at a passing maid absently, as if assuring himself that their words would not be given undue attention. "The rest of the army, two days."

"Under whose banner do they march?" Arthur resisted the urge to rub his forehead, or betray his consternation with any other external mannerism. He was acting regent; there was no need to step further into an authority that wasn't his, and which he didn't need, to do his job. He didn't need Gaius to resume his insistence that Arthur take a king's sovereignty, or for others to voice similar thoughts.

"Cenred's, sire," Leon said. "We knew he was amassing an army…"

The timing was off. That morning when the king's illness was first made public – because the incident at the welcome-home banquet for Morgana was widely excused as an overindulgence of wine due to relief at his ward's safety and presence – was the first they'd heard of this gathering of mercenaries. Cenred's patchwork army could not be the result of rumors of Camelot's weakness. He'd moved too quickly.

Did that mean he'd either anticipated or caused Uther's mysterious malady?

"How many men?" Arthur said, envisioning the territory between Cenred's border and the citadel. Was there any place where he could march a contingent of Camelot's forces, and-

"Twenty thousand. Maybe more."

Damn it all to hell. And Arthur knew that Leon had seen his mental wince, behind his eyes. There was no way…

"We must find a way to appease him," the knight suggested.

Arthur shook his head. "Not what my father would do, he wouldn't bow to our enemies." But neither could they mount up and ride out, because-

"We are outnumbered two to one," Gaius mentioned. "Forgive me, sire."

"We cannot treat with him," Arthur mumbled, surreptitiously squeezing his arms tighter around his chest. "That would be acknowledging his superiority before we've fought a single encounter. What concessions will Cenred insist on? What territories will he demand?" And if – when – they were forced to give in, what would stop Cenred from doing more, next season or next year? Pushing troops farther onto Camelot's soil – and that much closer to the citadel?

"We don't have anything to give him," Gaius said, exchanging a look with Leon and voicing what they all already knew. "But it could buy us valuable time…"

Time until his father was cured, maybe. But if Arthur would not seize the crown from his insensible parent, neither would he delay and defer and then hand this burden of decision to a weakened and recovering king.

"It shows weakness, Gaius," Arthur said tiredly. Which only leads to more such attacks, and maybe from more than Cenred. If Caerleon took their chance… "There's only one course of action open to us." He straightened from the wall and set his jaw determinedly, already looking beyond his two friends. "We must prepare the city for siege."

 _Everyone_ , working immediately and through the night in shifts… could it be done?

"Gaius," he added. "Please go meet with the individual we discussed, and do it quickly. I'll be along as soon as I can…"

The old physician scrutinized Arthur's face a moment more, then wordlessly spread his robe in a bow that broke the contact of their gazes, before shuffling off down the corridor, as quickly as he could without raising the suspicions of those who saw him. Arthur watched him go, his mind already moving on in leaps and bounds to what orders had to be delivered to which individuals to handle and delegate, themselves…

"Are you sure that is wise?" Leon said in a low voice, his chin dropped so Arthur would know, he wasn't questioning, he was making sure Arthur wouldn't question, later.

"The castle is our strongest weapon," Arthur said on a sigh. "No army has ever taken Camelot."

Then why was Cenred trying? Maybe he thought he could overwhelm them like ants swarming over a… no, he wouldn't finish that thought.

"But what about people in the outlying villages?" Leon said. "We warned everyone along Cenred's route, but…"

"Give them refuge inside the city walls," Arthur said. The ones who didn't melt into the landscape, hiding in forests and caves, the ones who trusted instead to the walls their taxes had helped raised, would not be turned away.

"And what of their houses," Leon said tiredly, knowing what Arthur knew. Twenty thousand men would move through their land like a horde of so many locusts. "Their livelihoods? Cenred will destroy everything in his path."

Arthur shook his head, hating the helpless feeling. If he could ride out immediately and stand against Cenred and all his men _successfully_ , he'd do it. He'd give his life doing it. But Camelot wasn't its villages, its products or industries. "But they will have their lives," he concluded. "Go – ready the army."

And the steward would organize the preparations for the citadel, and the merchants' council would handle the concerns of the lower town, and… Leon bowed and moved in the direction opposite what Gaius had taken.

By nightfall tomorrow. The words repeated in his head, reinforced each time he repeated them to his subordinates, the ones who would do, while he was left free to think and worry. Now that he was the one giving rather than receiving orders.

Arthur turned his steps downward, listening to the echoes his boots made on the stones, to the one place in the entire citadel that wouldn't be filled with the bustle of anxious people preparing to receive thousands more anxious people fleeing before thousands of enemy soldiers bent on rending life from limb. No matter the confidence he'd shown to councilmen and knights, his stomach had curled and hardened into knots of uncertainty as daylight waned to serene twilight, outside the citadel.

He'd chosen to defend his home because that was what he knew best. If he couldn't take a handful of men and strike hard and fast and silent to win the victory, this was what was left. He'd never led the whole army as a series of interconnecting units, orders given to each commander to be splintered to the captains. They were outnumbered anyway, like that, and without a definite advantage in terrain – which they didn't have, over farmland and sweeping valleys and lazy hills – if he didn't defeat Cenred in the field, there would be no one left to defend the citadel. And, if he and his father remained here, Cenred would bring his war straight to them, and the villages between might escape relatively unscathed. At the least, they would not have _two_ armies trampling their newly-planted fields and sowing them with corpses instead of crops.

When he reached the cell level, he was mildly surprised to find the two duty-guards keeping an eye on an open door between casts of dice from their gaming cup. But the first guard explained in two words as the second was still rising to full-height attention before his prince.

"Court physician. My lord."

Still? Arthur acknowledged with a nod; he didn't have to worry about Gaius plotting to aid the prisoner the way he had to worry bout Morgana doing the same. If Gaius ever took this sort of action, Arthur was quite certain he would leave no trace or evidence to incriminate himself.

It was, therefore, with curiosity rather than suspicion, that Arthur quietly placed himself where he could hear the conversation between the physician and the prisoner, without being noticed through the open door, himself.

"…Be more careful," the old man was saying. "Momentary discomfort is a small price to pay, compared to-"

"There's really no need for you to worry about me," the prince of Caerleon objected, though his tone brought back certain memories from Arthur's adolescence – verbally denying what he actually appreciated. "Honestly, my biggest complaint at the moment is boredom."

Arthur snorted and shook his head. And he could almost envy the other young man…

"I'm afraid we have rather the opposite problem, up there," Gaius said, sounding stern.

"Really? What's going on?"

Arthur tensed at the point of revealing the vulnerability of anticipated conflict to an enemy – but to ascertain the extent of his involvement, or progress beyond suspicion to requests for aid, they had to demonstrate an initial measure of trust. And Caerleon wasn't allied with Cenred, either.

He leaned forward slightly to see into the cell; Merlin's tone was bored eagerness for gossip, but that might be very close to the curiosity of a schemer for the success of his designs. Both sat on the prisoner's bed, Gaius stoop-shouldered and braced on his knees. Still dressed in the cheap white shirt given patients of the physician, Merlin slouched next to him, sideways with one leg curled under him on the bed and his hands in his lap, bruises still showing on the clean line of his jaw leaning earnestly toward the old man.

Why did he want to like Merlin, so much? A desire like that could betray him – and through him, the kingdom. He ought not want friends.

"The king is not well," Gaius stated, and it sounded like he was studying his young companion with a raised brow.

"Indigestion from his _I've-conquered-magic_ feast?" Merlin asked flippantly. "Good."

"Rather more than that. The symptoms I have noted do not seem to have a readily identifiable origin in accident or disease. Therefore the question has arisen, if the king's malady is due in some way to magic."

There was a moment of silence, when Merlin did not look away from the old man's gaze. Arthur wished he could see the sorcerer's face.

"If that is true…" Merlin's voice was quiet, but steady and emphatic enough to carry to Arthur outside the open door. "It was not me."

Arthur found he believed him.

"I believe you," Gaius said. "But it has happened in the past, that magic was used in various forms, to attack the king or the prince or the people of Camelot."

"And, coincidentally, it's happening again while I'm here." Merlin's sigh was nearly inaudible, but Arthur could read the slump of his shoulders clearly. "Does Pendragon – I mean, does the prince think it was me? What does Lady Morgana think?"

Interesting that he'd care what Arthur thought – though considering their arrangement, it stood to reason he wouldn't want to be thought guilty of an attack, if it might mean retaliation – but of what significance was Morgana's opinion?

"Arthur is a fair-minded young man," Gaius said, and Arthur felt the skin of his face warm to hear such a compliment. "As for Morgana, I wouldn't venture to guess what a young lady thinks."

Though that wasn't entirely correct. Maybe the presence of the prince of Caerleon and the odd illness of the king and the threat of Cenred's mercenaries distracted the old man, but Arthur knew Gaius cared for and worried about Morgana as much as for him. Like a surrogate uncle, maybe, as well as the physician responsible for their physical health ever since they were children.

And if anyone could guess why Morgana chose to pretend like nothing was wrong, or ever had been, if anyone could glimpse behind her façade of perfection, it would be Gaius. Then again, why should he confide such a thing to Merlin.

"Yeah, I can see that," Merlin responded. "But everyone knows the Pendragons go a bit irrational when it comes to magic. I just wondered how she really feels about that."

"Who told you that?" Gaius said mildly, even as Arthur chose to straighten, and moved around the doorway into view.

Both men in the cell looked up at him immediately. And that was the extent of Gaius' reaction - probably anticipating Arthur's arrival – but Merlin jerked upright, away from the wall. He dropped his other boot flat to the floor, ready to leap up and – what? His wrists, now visible, were bound in cuffs again, linked with a chain that clattered and settled in his lap. Faint yellow and green stained the skin around his left eye, fading evidence of abuse; there was a bundle of indigo next to him on the bed that might have been his own shirt, returned by the physician.

"Answer the question, _Mer_ lin," Arthur said. "Where did you hear that Pendragons go irrational at the mention of magic?"

Merlin glanced at Gaius as if to gain an idea of how best to proceed. Then met Arthur's eye squarely. "Queen Annis has said that more than once. And I was taught history."

Gaius shifted his weight, as if to caution the younger man, and Merlin glanced at him again. Arthur felt uncomfortably as if there was something they knew, that he didn't.

"Although," Merlin added, with a twinkle that belied his thoughtful tone. "You've been remarkably level-headed about _my_ magic. Does that make me special? Or maybe I've successfully enchanted you as part of a bigger plot."

Arthur made a rude noise, and Merlin grinned, relaxing. "You are an idiot if you think _anyone_ believes you're special."

And don't even address the topic of magic and irrationality, as it pertained to his father.

"Good, you underestimate me," Merlin shot back.

Ignoring the urge to argue further, Arthur attempted to steer the conversation back to necessities. "So, if _you_ haven't cursed my father-"

"Oh, I did that," Merlin interrupted blithely. "Have done, will do - damn him. But it's all old-fashioned cursing, not magic. Not enchantment. At least not from me."

Well, it was something. Though the hope of help from this quarter was probably slim; even if Merlin would rearrange the hostage bargain to offer salvation in any increment, Uther himself would be furious to come to his senses and find their prisoner given any consideration for helping him.

"Would you be able tell if the malady was magical in nature?" Gaius asked, leaning forward on his knees.

"Maybe, but… not from here." Merlin lifted his eyebrows at Arthur, who shook his head.

"There's no way my father would allow him anywhere near," Arthur said. "If he found out, he'd probably have you executing for actually enchanting me – so, no."

Merlin shrugged, the chains clinking in his lap as he toyed with them carelessly.

"I was flipping through your book of magic," Arthur offered awkwardly – and that gathered him a narrow glance. "Is there anything in there that I –" Gaius cleared his throat – "or Gaius might find helpful in the situation."

"You probably can't even read half of it, can you," Merlin said, with mock sympathy that brought Arthur's hackles up. His patience for teasing felt short, tonight.

"Why would I waste my time with it?" he said dismissively.

Merlin made a sarcastic noise. "Comes in pretty handy when you suspect family or friends are cursed."

And Arthur was done. "Good luck with your boredom," he said shortly. "Gaius? You're needed elsewhere."

He twisted halfway back to the door as an invitation and a command for Gaius to join him. Merlin said nothing, and after a moment the old man pushed laboriously to his feet. He was just past Arthur – turning his back on the prisoner – when the chains clattered again, signaling the younger man's rising to his feet.

"Are the symptoms physical?" A studiously neutral tone.

Arthur met Gaius' glance, considering, then giving permission with a look. Because the prince's motivations couldn't be as simple as mental exercise for pass-time.

"Psychological, mainly," Gaius answered. "The minor physical symptoms result from the mental disquiet."

"You're probably looking for an object as the focus of the spell, then," Merlin said, without trace of sarcasm. "As near the king as possible. I imagine you could identify poison, Gaius, so… cursed object. And you probably know this as well, but that's dark magic. Tormenting a person in any way. My mentor was a druid, he had strict rules about that sort of thing, and how corruptive it can be, but there might be a page or two in my book about lifting or breaking such curses."

Gaius asked another question with a lift of his eyebrow. "In my desk drawer, in my room," Arthur told him. "And it should remain there, for security reasons."

The physician bowed acquiescence and made his way from the room, slowly on the stairs and exchanging a word with the guards down the hall.

Arthur turned to study the sorcerer, beneath the cheap borrowed shirt and the marks of suffering on his skin. The genuine skill with a sword he'd witnessed in their duel, despite the sore muscles Merlin had conscientiously stretched and warmed, ignoring Arthur's goading. The sly humor, the moments of magic… the education that had been very different, it seemed, from Arthur's own. At least in part.

He'd never heard that before, a differentiation between magics. It was all dark, wasn't it, and anyone who thought otherwise was just deluding himself?

"And now I've made you suspicious," Merlin guessed – wrongly but good-naturedly. "It sounds stupid, but dark magic is something I wouldn't want used on my worst enemy."

"That does sound stupid," Arthur agreed, this time resisting belief in the younger prince's sincerity. "But I'm getting used to that from you."

"Says the man who can't read," Merlin said slyly.

Arthur snorted. But the verbal sparring couldn't distract him long from the reason why his father's illness was such a problem just now. He glanced up at the openings in the top of the wall, gauging the amount of daylight remaining til shadows thickened the air. It was an ironic fact, that Merlin was one of those that Arthur had sworn his life to protect.

"Is your father as bad as all that?" Merlin asked quietly.

It was easier to be honest, to be genuine, with his back to the younger man. Not looking at him, and thinking of all he represented, and how he shouldn't trust him – not feeling the weight of Merlin's evaluating gaze in return, wondering what the other prince saw in him. Or what he didn't see.

"Your king still has his queen," he commented, and Merlin murmured agreement. "So if your king was ever… ill. She would assume command? Or does it fall right to you?"

"They share command, now," Merlin said. "It's fairly equal – I think he knows when she's right and appreciates her leadership supplementing but not supplanting his when he needs it. Makes me think, sometimes, about… when I'm king. Who I want sharing the throne and the leadership and the authority and the responsibility."

Arthur was a little surprised that it could hurt to have someone else share a moment of quiet candor. His heart ached to think of his mother beside his father – not just now when they needed the stability, but having been there for him all these years. How would they all be different today, for her presence? And… who did he want sharing the throne with him, someday? No one like any Lady or Princess he'd met so far…

"Cheer up," Merlin said, and it sounded like that was just the expression he wore, too. "It's only a matter of time, isn't it, til your father is well enough to have an ass on his own throne again."

"You're a bastard," Arthur said. And his mouth didn't twitch with an urge to smirk at the rough humor at his sick father's expense.

"I'm really not," Merlin disagreed, unperturbed.

Arthur dropped his gaze from the fine slivers of darkening sky, beginning to swing away to the door. He should check in with the steward and make his presence felt through the citadel, reassuring and calming – maybe form a couple of contingencies to discuss with the council when they panicked, tomorrow. And he should probably have dinner with Morgana, making sure she was going to be all right, facing battle again so soon after her harrowing year and traumatic rescue.

But his eyes fell on a spot in the stone wall, a depression that looked chipped or chiseled away, surrounding a pair of holes drilled deeper. He turned to Merlin, his eyes seeking the chains binding his wrists for confirmation even as he realized – those chains should have been attached to the wall.

"What the hell, Caerleon," he said, wearily annoyed that he was repeating himself again. _What? I can't cooperate in comfort?_ "You said your magic was blocked?"

"Why do you have to blame magic for everything?" Merlin countered. The chains rattled and clinked as he mimed yanking them away from the wall. "I'm stronger than I look."

Arthur rolled his eyes and sent a piercing whistle through the open door to the guards, signaling his need. "Why'd they lock you up, anyway?"

"Your lady Morgana came to visit," Merlin told him. "I think I made her mad, though, because they didn't unchain me, after…"

The guard leaned in the open doorway. "Yes, my lord?"

Arthur gestured. "Unlock him. And in future, if anyone can't enter the prisoner's cell without restraining him first – they don't need to step into the cell. Am I clear?"

"Yes, my lord." The guard obeyed without hesitation, reaching to his belt for the keys and approaching Merlin to unlock and remove the cuffs.

He considered asking the man exactly how the iron had been removed from the stone wall where it was bolted in place – and then didn't. He had enough to worry about already, without seeking new revelations he'd be honor-bound to deal with.

"Word of advice," he added, as the guard retreated with the irons, and Merlin rubbed his wrists, grimacing. "Charm the ladies who have access to the keys. If you can."

"All my charm is blocked," Merlin quipped, running a finger under the fine silver chain that crossed his collarbones.

"If that's true, then you deserve to be in here," Arthur said lightly, turning to leave – then paused. "Say? Keep your head down for the next few days."

Merlin's entire expressive face twisted in a questioning look.

"I have a feeling it might get to be the very opposite of boring for a lot of people," Arthur said. Maybe he couldn't admit an impending siege to an enemy, but he could issue this mild and nonspecific warning. "I like to keep my promises. Especially those about protecting people."

"Well, that riddle will save me from boredom," Merlin drawled. And as Arthur reached the door, added, "I hope you sleep well."

And he meant it. And Arthur couldn't turn around, couldn't blurt out any more of the confusion and uncertainty welling up in his chest. So he pretended he hadn't heard, and turned his steps upward, hearing the prison door slam shut between them again with a faint passing ripple of something that might have been regret.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana shifted her weight nervously – no, not nervously, with anticipation – as Morgause strode down the hill, leaving her milk-white horse to wait unfettered in the moonlight. She wore chainmail over trousers, her long hair curled by the wind and the air's moisture, rather than any more deliberate arrangement in front of a dressing-table mirror. Her sister was so forcefully vibrant, it sometimes made Morgana feel like she blended into stagnant shadows, in comparison.

But Morgause's victorious satisfaction was difficult to deny, and Morgana's smile felt relieved and genuine to hear that Cenred's army moved upon her sister's word.

"There is nothing you cannot do," she told Morgause happily, warm with the certainty of her sister's devotion and protection.

"It is you who gives me strength, sister," Morgause declared with the intensity that made all her statements unquestionable. "But truthfully, it isn't difficult. As a rule, men focus on physical strength and skill, and ignore the fact that the muscles of the body are actually the weakest form of power. They ignore intelligence and other sorts of skills, and those without magic both fear and underestimate it."

Morgana wondered uneasily, for the first time, about the black knights that formed her sister's guard, silent around the moonlit clearing. They were always silent, cloaked and hooded and masked. Did they hear Morgause's words? Did they understand – did they care? If they did, why didn't they do anything about it? Or what might happen when they did? And if they _didn't_ – shouldn't that bother her more?

"How goes the battle for Uther's mind?" Morgause continued, as if the question naturally followed her comments on power and misconception.

Morgana gave the answer she'd prepared and rehearsed in her mind, knowing her sister was going to ask, projecting the confidence and satisfaction she knew she should feel. "When Cenred marches on Camelot, he will find a kingdom without a leader."

Except for how Arthur was trying _so hard_ to keep that lack unfelt, by the fighters and the commoners of Camelot. She'd seen the strain in the lines by his eyes, last night when he'd come to suggest dinner together – she'd turned him down for that reason. Ostensibly for his sake, but she felt the discomfort of indigestion, watching him bear the burden silently and still try to be cheerful and encouraging for _her_ , during the meal. It was the other reason she'd dismissed Gwen early – _Are you sure you don't need me, m'lady? Yes, you're right, Elyan will need help with the preparations for the forge and the house… Thank you, my lady – and I'm sure we'll be fine, you know Arthur will defend the citadel with his life… Yes, I'm going – good night, my lady_.

She half-suspected that if she'd faced Arthur over that table, quiet and distracted and earnest, she might have skipped several steps of Morgause's plan and said something like, _Don't you think your father is wrong about magic. Shouldn't he be stopped, killing innocents and persecuting women and children and the peaceful communities of druids, in a definite and final way_ …

Morgana hadn't been able to stop herself worrying, too, after Uther's outburst in council, after his breakdown in the courtyard outside the banquet hall. She had tried to compose questions about the enchantment and the mandrake root, about how such a thing might change with time – would it grow stronger, til the shuddering and flinching at shadows slid into unresponsiveness, or would its hold diminish and allow recovery? – and when she ought to remove the evidence from the king's chamber. But now, here in her sister's presence, she swallowed questions and uncertainty both.

"Talking of kingdoms and leaders, I have given some serious thought to your questions concerning the prince with magic," Morgause said. "Were you able to see him?"

"I did," Morgana said, lifting her chin as her body stiffened in remembered offense. "He won't be any help at all. He selfishly refuses to admit connections to other magic-users, or to act except at Caerleon's command. I think we should leave him to his cell for now, and decide how to deal with him after we remove Uther from the throne."

Morgause made a thoughtful noise, taking three slow steps in a small semicircle around Morgana. "I think you're wrong," she declared, attention focused on the toes of her boots, rather than Morgana's face. "And that you were right, initially. He might make a very strategic and powerful ally, a prince with magic that could be fostered and taught – not just for this battle, but for the future. It would be good for us to have ties to Caerleon."

"I don't care what Arthur thinks," Morgana said flatly. "He is _not_ cooperative."

Her sister's gaze burned in the moonlight, and her teeth gleamed. "Then you will have to be persuasive."

Morgana swallowed, hoping the darkness covered her uneasiness at Morgause's tone. "Persuasive?"

"You are naturally alluring," Morgause told her, brushing her gloved hand gently over the cloud of lace trimming the cloak that lay around Morgana's shoulders. "And if he is much younger than Cenred, he should be that much easier to ensnare."

Uneasiness doubled, dragging her stomach down toward her heels. Dumbly incapable – or maybe too afraid – of thinking further, she again repeated her sister's most important word. " _Ensnare_?"

"Seduce." Morgause faced her, shrugging her shoulders with a nonchalance at odds with the fire lighting her eyes – an intensity that had little to do with her magic. "Attach him to you, make him eager to please you, willing to do as you say… Most men are perfectly happy to be led about by the strings of their trousers."

"But…"

Breath caught momentarily in Morgana's throat. Maybe true of Cenred – she'd seen it often enough, hadn't she – and maybe true of hordes of strangers, but… What of the other men she knew? Was Arthur like that? Or Leon? _Uther…_ or _Gaius_? She knew Morgause had a low opinion of men – maybe because she hadn't known many, while she was growing up, or many like Morgana had known.

She couldn't help recalling the feral way Cenred had often watched Morgause over dinner, and how Morgause had teased, using cruel words and a cold shoulder to manipulate him. And the nights when she'd strategically surrendered - with a private smirk of triumph to Morgana - disappearing down the hall with her wrist in the king's hand, and his soul in her palm. It made her feel as it always had, cold and sick and more alone than she'd been before she knew she had a sister. As though she should have saved Morgause somehow from the necessity of allowing the man's hand to touch her skin and his mouth to take hers, and… so on.

"You told me there was no one you fancied in Camelot, didn't you?" A faint impatience stirred in Morgause's tone.

"I did, and it's true. But…" But what about elsewhere? What about the boy with freckles and crooked grin and honey-brown hair in Trevena? Did he ever think of her, anymore? And if he was married with five children now – would it change anything for her? She knew Morgause would never consider marriage, or even love – that was distraction far beneath her – but Morgana was not yet prepared to abandon the possibility entirely.

"Please don't tell me you're about to ask me _how_." Morgause sighed with impatience. "Inexperience doesn't matter. Every woman knows _how_. The key is to believe it yourself. Confidence – he won't be able to help responding to confidence. Promise him more than you give, and give enough to keep him just short of satisfied."

She gripped her hands in fists by her sides to keep them from trembling. _I don't_ _even know what that means_. Kissing, obviously. And touching, and… skin.

"I really think we can take Camelot from Uther without him," she ventured.

"Of course we can," Morgause said dismissively. "But if you own the heart of the prince of Caerleon, we can command their warriors one day, and use their land, their resources and assets…"

"I think he's betrothed," Morgana blurted. In the midst of Gwen's inane chatter – she didn't used to think it inane, she used to _engage_ – that mostly she'd blocked out, she knew she remembered her maid saying something about Prince Merlin's heart being attached already to someone in his own kingdom.

"Good!" Morgause exclaimed. "Whoever she is, she can't compare to you for beauty and status and magic, and when you persuade him away from her, he will be more _fully_ yours."

And heartsickness was a different feeling to the nausea that arose at the thought of her seducing anyone. She didn't want to cause this unknown girl unhappiness.

Then again, Prince Merlin was nothing like Cenred, either. He didn't look at her body like a wolf watching prey, didn't sneer or insinuate or posture. He was young and not – unattractive. Maybe it wouldn't be too hard to engage his interest, or too unpleasant allowing him minimal rewards.

"Maybe I'm asking too much of you again," Morgause stated, swaying and tilting her shoulders away from Morgana. "If you don't think you can…"

"I can," Morgana said immediately.

Well… hadn't every young man in Camelot admired her at feasts and banquets? Hadn't they fought tournaments to see who'd escort her as an additional triumph? Of course she could… ensnare. She'd just never had a reason to, before. She'd just never done it up close, and in private with one young man, before…

"Good," her sister said decisively, again. "You'll see him tomorrow – go twice, if necessary, to set his affections securely. Because by tomorrow night, you'll need to focus on this."

She flung out one arm, and a long streak of reflected moonlight flashed in the darkness as a long slender bolt leaped to her hand from the gleaming shape of her horse. For a moment Morgana was certain that she'd taken some essence of life _from_ the animal – and then she recognized the object as a staff, no taller than a cane, but branching at the top into a cluster of blunted points.

Like roots, she thought, snapped off and rubbed down…

"Tell me what I must do," she said, unable to take her eyes from the piece. Unwilling to touch it – and unsure _why_.

"It's carved from the Rowan tree that grows at the very heard of the Isle of the Blessed," Morgause said, without a trace of regret. "Only the High Priestesses and their Blood Guard have ever set eyes on it."

Morgana had never been to the Isle, but she had pictured it many times through her sister's tales. How was this staff taken, or made? Had it harmed the tree, or the protection and invigoration it afforded the Isle?

"My magic is still weak," she protested. "I do not have the strength to wield such an instrument." It felt strong, even though she wasn't touching it; how was she supposed to control and direct? It felt _sentient_ , and Morgause nearly confirmed the suspicion with her next words.

"Do not worry, the staff will guide you. It carries its own power."

Like the silent hidden knights that surrounded them, utterly obedient to the command of their mistress? Morgana's heart fluttered at the possibility that the staff did not wish to be used so – or that it _did_.

Perhaps she did not need to control or wield it, perhaps she needed to be the one utterly obedient to whatever trace of spirit remained in the splinter of the mother-tree. Perhaps it was like the root, and only needed to be placed properly to do its work.

"I will not fail you," Morgana declared softly, reaching to wrap her fingers gently around the carven shaft. There was a minute vibration, a faint warmth – the sense that it was aimed like an arrow already, that it was always _pointing_.

"I know." Morgause released the staff, and Morgana saw her smile of triumphant satisfaction flash in the moonlight as she turned to stride back to her horse.

Leaving Morgana to the company and care of the enigmatic rowan staff.

 _If I can handle this_ , she told herself, adjusting her fingers subtly… _I can handle_ him. _I can_.

 **A/N: Dialogue taken from ep.3.1-2 "Tears of Uther Pendragon".**

 **Evidently therapy is a full-time job. And evidently oxycodone suppresses creativity along with pain… Surgery went all right, but recovery will be long and strenuous and time-consuming. Sorry the chapter is late… it probably won't be the last one that's delayed, either… But it's quite long, and there was Arthur &Merlin – and I promise Merlin & Morgana next time!**


	12. Skeletons and Keys

**Chapter 12: Skeleton and Keys**

Merlin was quite sure he shouldn't expect visitors that day. Better not to expect and then be pleasantly surprised, than deal with frustration and disappointment all day.

And there was that heightened level of occupation both Gaius and the prince had hinted at. Widespread? Merlin lounged atop the two steps leading to the cell's door, trying to eavesdrop through the tiny view-window on the guards at the end of the hall. Short, clipped sentences and the rattle of dice – he couldn't tell if it was relief of boredom or tension.

And then he heard something else – the tapping of rapidly approaching footfalls, someone wearing fine delicate feminine-

Merlin couldn't believe his conclusion, even as voices raised and the steps approached his cell. He could only push himself to his feet and retreat several paces, watching up to the door with surprised anticipation.

Squeal of _key_ in lock. Sullen shriek of hinges, and _she_ appeared in the doorway.

Lady Morgana. Dark-rimmed eyes flashing like green fire, lips deliberately reddened, the line dividing daylight and shadow sharp across porcelain skin, chin and jaw and neck. Her black hair was braided down the back of her head, leaving the curls free behind her nape – and the gown. His eyes dropped from her face and his lungs involuntarily skipped a breath.

Wine-colored silk, fine and thin and rippling over curves like liquid; the diamond shape of the bodice pointed up to her throat, leaving her arms and shoulders bare. She stood braced in the doorway, arms outward as if support was necessary, one hip dropped and body vulnerable; she glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure the guard was still there.

Or not.

As she faced him she inhaled; her expression reminded him of certain moments of mental preparation prior to stepping into a room where he'd been summoned. Expectant, defensive, or wholly in the dark as to purpose, before his tutor or trainer, before the king or queen, before Caerleon nobility – strangers, that didn't like him. And he wanted and needed them to respect him and the choice made in his favor, granting him the rulership of their kingdom.

Then her lips spread into a practiced smile, and she pronounced almost coyly, "Prince Merlin."

"My lady?" Merlin responded, a bit breathlessly.

Totally confused. Even more so than when she'd come to his cell the day before yesterday, questioning his presence and motivation and morals, seemingly looking to make him admit a willingness to attack his enemy in spite of his accepted surrender. To maybe agree to that? He'd turned her down, and she'd left him chained to the wall, and now she was back.

Dressed like _that_. Why?

She twisted in place, dropping one shoulder and her chin coquettishly. "May I come in?"

"This is your citadel…" he said, not ungraciously. He watched her drop her other arm and step slowly down the first stair, affecting carelessness when every movement seemed calculated to draw attention. He wondered if she and Pendragon didn't talk much, for all that he'd observed of Arthur's strain over her disappearance and continued absence. "If you're here to ask me, am I responsible for Uther's condition, I'm not. I swear."

Her foot jarred on the second step, sending arrhythmic ripples through her body that served to break focus and return his attention fully to her face. "Why would you say that?"

"Gaius was here yesterday," Merlin said, each sentence like asking a question. Surely she'd heard; surely they'd told her? "He and the prince thought maybe the illness was brought on by magic somehow…"

"What did you tell them?" she demanded, her feet still unevenly balanced on separate stairs, her knuckles white.

"That they might look for a cursed object? We had it once where someone slipped a _curs-tacn_ into… well, into my pocket, in a busy marketplace. See, we had gone to-"

Her eyes were distant and unfocused, like she'd stopped listening to him for a moment, lost in thoughts that drew all the muscles of her face and neck taut. Then she gave herself a slight shake that set silk shimmering all down her body, and joined him on the level floor of the cell, back in command of herself and the situation. "I didn't come here to talk about Uther. I came to talk about you."

Merlin drew back a disconcerted half-step. "Okay…"

"Tell me about your magic," she suggested, her voice an alluring murmur. "And maybe… ask me to sit down."

The only furniture was his bed; the only other place to sit was the floor. And far enough into the cell to sit on his bed – his _bed_? – was far enough to have the waste-bucket in view. She'd done it the last time she was in here, seating herself in the middle of the thin lumpy mattress – but invitation was a different matter.

"I beg your pardon, my lady," Merlin said gently, shifting his weight to block her from the bed, if that was her destination. "That wouldn't be appropriate."

She paused, swaying slightly, then shrugged bare shoulders. "Fine. Tell me about your magic."

"About magic in general?" He hesitated, feeling awkward. Because that was a very personal subject of conversation, only maybe she didn't know that.

"Yours," she specified, with a curve of her reddened lips. And a hint of something more curiosity than… flirtation.

Wait, what? Was _that_ what this was? What reason could she possibly have to-

"How old were you when you started to think, you were different from everyone around you?" she added. "When you knew you had magic? What happened, the first time you knew you used it?"

And that was very like, how Alator had once spoken to him. The very first and one of the only other magic-users Merlin had ever met.

"I don't remember," he said softly, honestly. "I was a baby, I heard about it in my mother's stories. I've always… been different."

She stared at him, and for a moment, all pretense was stripped away. "I was twelve," she said. "I dreamed… and the next day, what I dreamed, happened."

Merlin's eyebrows climbed for his hairline. "You're a seer?"

Impatiently, she made a negligent gesture, giving her head a little shake. "Gaius says a seer is born with the ability, but it's too close to magic for Uther. He'd have me killed merely on the suspicion. Burned at the stake for a witch."

The muscles in his forehead moved, drawing his brows down. From what Arthur had said about the last year… "Surely not. You're his ward."

She shrugged, bare skin and clinging silk. "I'm not willing to risk it, with confession or discovery."

"Did you _see_ anything about me?" he asked, interested.

Her lips pursed disparagingly. "Of course not."

But then why was she pursuing… _oh_. "Was that why you were asking me all those questions?" he said. "Loyalty to my kin, and what I would do?" She met his eyes briefly, deep green like emeralds – light reflecting from hard facets, but color and emotion revealing depth and angle, cut and flaw. "Hey – when you were talking about, what if war broke out and there was a chance to strike against Uther, or – _overthrow_ …"

She made the gesture again, more vehement, turning sideways from him to face the outer wall, lifting her face to the windows. "Never mind me. You don't have to worry about that, safe here in your cell. Unless… you wanted to help."

"Wanted to help whom?" he said narrowly, his heart picking up its pace alertly. "I said before, I don't know of any group with the authority or strength or inclination to make such a move. Uther would never receive representatives with magic to address differences and demands, which is the only honorable way to go about declaring war."

"As opposed to crossing borders and stealing from villagers you slaughter?" she tossed over her shoulder, swaying a few steps away.

He flinched. It might've hurt more to have her jab one of her hair-pins through his chest and into his heart, but… _hells_. Before he could formulate a response that wasn't an excuse, or work the moisture necessary for words back around his mouth, she glanced over her shoulder to gauge the effect of her words, and didn't seem to like what she saw.

"Let's talk about something else," she proposed, again with the coy undertones, spinning with a swirl of wine-silk to face him, and backing to lean against the stone wall under the window-slits, jeweled slipper-toes peeking out from under her hem, one knee interrupting the fall of soft gown-material, her fingers spread against the stone to either side of her hips. "Gwen mentioned a girl who waits for you in Caerleon. Tell me about her – what is she like? What's her name?"

Merlin allowed one side of his mouth to lift in a sardonic smile, sauntering a few steps to follow her movement in the cell. "Why the change of subject?"

She took a breath, and her eyes cleared for a moment of honesty. "I don't mean to offend you or alienate you. I'm trying to… get to know you."

"Again, why?" It was more than just, someone with a magical ability making a tentative connection with a conspicuous sorcerer in a place where such things put them both in danger.

"I have to have a reason?" she challenged, tilting her head. "Your girl, then, she's dazzlingly beautiful and clever and – confident? The daughter of a lord of Caerleon?"

"Actually, she's fairly shy," Merlin relented, smiling at the memory and feeling another sort of regret pierce his heart. It had been close to two weeks now, since he'd said farewell to Freya. "All the things I see in her – strength and sweetness and generosity – she doesn't see in herself. She has difficulty… looking past the lowest time in her life and seeing that it doesn't define her anymore."

"Hm." Morgana looked distinctly unimpressed. Or displeased, maybe – but why that? "So she is beautiful and clever, your lady?"

"She's not a lady in title," Merlin said. Oh, but in all else… "And I think she's beautiful, though she says she's not. Sometimes when she's got a smear of flour on her face and she doesn't realize it-"

Morgana straightened away from the wall, dark brows drawing together. "Not a lady – with _flour_ on her face? So you dabble with _maids_?"

Merlin scowled. "I don't dabble with anyone. I love her…" Realization cooled his irritation. "Oh, I see why you – no, in Caerleon the throne's heir isn't required to marry among the nobility, or other royalty. It's strongly encouraged, but… yeah, I could marry her. Probably will, someday."

Morgana thought, then a smile curled around the disapproval on her face and wiped it clear. "If you ever see her again," she said, deliberately provoking.

He couldn't help the emotional wince, and he knew she saw it because her smile sharpened, and her eyes lit.

"I can help you," she offered, swaying another step toward him. "I know someone who can take that chain off your neck. And perhaps if a prince of Caerleon is too finnicky for violence, we can come to some other agreement of… mutual benefit."

His shoulders twitched as she lifted her hands – long bare arms, smooth sweet-scented skin flowing to pulse-warmed neck – to reach her fingers around the back of his neck, pressing the links of the necklace down into his skin. He held very still under the touch and heat of her hands.

"What do you think," she said breathlessly, treating him to a sweep of her lashes rather than the emerald burn of her eyes. "Might I… persuade you to accept an offer?"

"What are you doing?" he whispered. The minute shift of her fingers was sending shivers down his spine, further confusing his body – mindless reaction not quite denied by the truth and memory of Freya.

"Negotiating," she purred, eyes focused on the silver chain showing through the laces of his shirt.

His collar crumpled and betrayed the skin on the back of his neck to her touch, and a fine tremor shot through him as she slowly caressed the hairs the wrong way.

"I know your word means a great deal to you, so I'll believe you if you swear. If we… ally. And I will help you, to take off that chain… or anything else you find… restrictive." A maidenly blush stained her cheeks with high color, but her eyes were a weapon leveled at his gut. "And you, will help me, when I ask."

This, had never happened to him before. He'd been young, meeting the ladies of Caerleon at one time and another, awkwardly aware of what he was not, and why the girls simpered and fluttered in front of him, and laughed behind him. Maybe he had grown up and filled out, but with every girl who wasn't Freya – and possibly Gwen – he couldn't shake the nagging notion that they didn't want _him_ , but something _from_ him.

And he'd been taught better than to make such vague promises, in his position and with the power at his command.

"Morgana," he said gently, reaching up to clasp her bare forearms, beginning to bring them down in denial of her request. Because she didn't really need to go _this_ far, if she genuinely needed his help.

Her eyes flashed something very different, something that froze him in place to realize – it was _fear_.

Not fear of _him_ , of him touching her gently and innocuously with the clear intention of putting distance between them, not when she'd initiated and offered _much_ more. Fear of someone else, then. Fear of failure, of disappointment…

And in one second, pieces clicked into place. Why had she come to the cell, after he'd been rude on the training field – and why had she come _back_ , after declaring she didn't care what became of him. Because she was acting to someone else's order – someone whose identity included aspects of magic and violence…

Someone who'd sent her _here_ , to do _this_.

Someone she obviously needed protection from, but would deny it…

Merlin lowered Morgana's arms, but didn't release her. He put a smile on his face as cold and calculating as he'd seen that hers could be, and shuffled her back a half-step.

"Let me see if I understand you fully," he murmured. Shuffling another half-step; she stumbled and he steadied her. "When you speak of… alliance, it is customary for both parties to exchange some… token…" Another half-step. "As guarantee of their intentions."

And Morgana's back was against the cold stone of the wall. From the corner of his eye Merlin glanced at the doorway – empty, at least til she cried out and brought the guards running. _Charm the ladies who have access to the keys_ …

"You're offering… yourself, isn't that right," he continued, raising her arms against resistance in subtle and patient increments, til her wrists were even with her eyes, and held back against the stone by his unrelenting grip. She was breathing hard – but she hadn't made a sound, and she wasn't struggling. "Not the traditional entanglements of marriage, but... a system of favors exchanged?"

She made a noise of almost-cheerful agreement, and he wanted to shake her, make her fight him off.

"What if I wanted my token now," he whispered, leaning against her, hips and chest. "An assurance that my help will be properly rewarded? How far can I go?" He nudged his knee between hers; she was tight as a bowstring – the opposite of Freya's welcoming softness, and that helped. "How much can I take? Right here, right now-"

"How-" She inhaled swiftly against him, and seemed to have trouble breathing. "I… guess, whatever you want. Whatever it takes for you to agree…"

"Hells, woman," he growled.

And kissed her mouth as aggressively as he knew how, covering and claiming her lips, pressing them apart to taste her, leaning his full weight into her.

She gasped half a breath before totally freezing. Shock, offense… inexperience.

He swore again internally, realizing that. And softened the kiss, feeling the betrayal of his beloved Freya in the act if not the intent – frustration and regret and longing, letting Morgana feel what he felt, even if she couldn't understand. He broke contact, then ventured one, two more kisses, barely more than a brush of his lips. _I'm_ _sorry_ … if this was her first, he didn't want it to be a traumatic memory for her.

"Morgana," he whispered, breathing her breath.

And smelling, now, the faintest whiff of the odor he'd noticed before, something like the midden heap… on fire. Bones moldering to ash – and possibly, the key to the mysteries Morgana was hiding. He found he wasn't surprised to identify the taint as a trace of dark magic, after the concern for Uther's ailment and the threat of overthrow. The coincidence of his presence in Camelot at the time of the king's infirmity had distracted him from the further coincidence of Uther falling ill to magic only days after Morgana's return.

He shifted his body away from her, but kept her wrists and asked quietly, "Who took you from Camelot? Where were you this year?"

Her eyes were on a level with his mouth, and she blinked. Twice. Then shoved against him – ineffectually, but her shock and reaction was hardening into irritated realization of his ploy as she raised her gaze to his. "No one took me. It was my decision to leave. I have magic – more than just visions. Uther would have killed me – you cannot understand."

Oh, but he thought he did. "And who were you with? Not the druids-"

"The druids," she scoffed. "They let Uther persecute them for decades, and never fought back. I discovered I wasn't as alone in the world as I thought – and I went to be with my sister. She has magic, she is strong and clever and she will have justice for all the innocents Uther has murdered! With or without your help."

"Your _sister_ ," he said, resisting belief because there was no way that family could treat each other so. "Your sister is a sorceress, and it's _her_ plan to kill Uther with a black-magic curse?"

" _Black_ magic?" Morgana scowled and wrenched again, and he released her so she wouldn't hurt herself.

"Did you cast the curse?" he said, feeling anger spread over his earlier emotions in a thin, cold layer. "Or did you just place the object? I can smell it on you still – dark magic."

"There's no such thing." Though she'd sent a downward glance to check herself, as though the sensation he described might be visible somehow, she tossed her head, the long curly ends of the braid swishing over the silk of her back. "There is only powerful magic, and those too fearful or weak to wield it."

"That's what she _told_ you?" Merlin exclaimed, taking another step back. "That there's no absolutes of right and wrong, just – ability justifies action? Morgana, dark magic is dangerous, to everyone – those who use it as well as those it's used on, and potentially anyone around. It's _addictive_ , and corruptive-"

"Who told you that?" Morgana fired back, hands on her hips and head cocked. "I'll bet your teacher was a _druid_."

"Well-" Actually, yes, the Catha were a druidic branch – just an extreme one. Comparatively. And Alator had been a self-exile. "Morgana, your sister, no matter what she's told you – a seer's magic isn't going to be enough warning to protect you, if you're discovered. Has she taught you defensive magic?" The surprised uncertainty in her expression was answer enough. "She's exposed you to dark magic without any warning, she's sent you to betray someone you're indebted to for years of care, to offer yourself to someone who might actually have taken something you can never get back – purity, self-respect. Stop a minute and _think_ about what you're doing."

"What I'm doing?" Morgana shoved his chest and he fell back another step – more in obedience to her intention than because of her strength. "What are _you_ doing? Defending Uther Pendragon?"

"I'm trying to defend _you_ ," he began.

"I don't need defending from my sister," Morgana spat. "She's my _sister_. She loves me."

"She sent you into Camelot to use magic. To try to kill the king. That is _not_ trying to keep you safe."

"I don't need to be kept safe! Camelot needs to be changed! And Uther… probably won't die." Morgana frowned, clearly conflicted, then whirled to leave.

"Remove the cursed object and burn it," Merlin called after her. "That will break the spell, the king will recover, you can leave Camelot again to be with your sister if you absolutely must, but I suggest you ask Gaius or Ar-"

"And you," she turned at the top of the stair, shaken but haughtily trying to cover it. "You can keep your mouth shut, because no one will believe you. And when Camelot is ours, you can beg for mercy."

Dam _mit_.

The door slammed and the key squealed in the lock and Merlin cursed aloud again, swinging about to stalk the length of his cell in a pacing stride. Well, why should she listen to him.

And why should he care.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*… .. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana must have passed dozens of people in the halls and on the stairs, busy people hurrying anxious and quiet – _that's my fault; no it's not it's Morgause's plan; no, it's Uther's fault for terrorizing us_ \- but when she reached the sanctuary of her chamber and put her back to the door to close it, resting for a moment in blessed solitude, she couldn't remember a single face.

Only his. His lips and his clear penetrating eyes and the soft brush of fine curls behind his neck, still damp from whatever washing he'd managed… And the way his body felt against her, warm and hard and surprisingly strong, the scent of the cheapest sort of soap the commoners used – also provided to prisoners - on his skin. Every fiber of her being rebelled against the memory – but some part of her refused to completely release the involuntary excitement still simmering in her veins.

Her heart was still pounding, every pulse point pounding, and she breathed deliberately through her nose, closing her eyes to focus on control.

How dare he. Somehow he'd seen right through her attempts to… seduce and ensnare, and he'd resisted them. Had guessed about her sister…

She let out a laugh that was also a sob. How was she going to tell Morgause that her plan hadn't worked? That she'd failed – because there was no way she was going to try again, not after the way he'd spoken of the girl he loved, not after the way he'd pinned her against the wall-

And the memory of his growled curse raised shivers on her bare arms and down her neck. He'd tasted her, and it was hard to breathe, thinking of that. Why was she still thinking of that? She refused to think of that! She wouldn't go back to him, not after the way he'd spoken of Morgause.

 _A seer's magic isn't going to be enough warning to protect you_ … but she was wearing the bracelet Morgause had enchanted to give her dreamless nights. If she hadn't been wearing it, _would_ she have foreseen the prince of Caerleon? If she wasn't wearing it now, might she see something in a vision of the upcoming battle or its conclusion… _Has she taught you defensive magic?_

Morgause hadn't taught her any functional magic beyond the restraint necessary to keep from outbursts that resulted in burnt curtains and smashed vases. They'd discussed history and the principles of the priestess' work, but… no, she had no defensive magic.

But how dare he question? He didn't know Morgause, he was wholly ignorant of her education and upbringing. Self-righteous, brainless barbarian…

Her hand pressed to her belly to still the turmoil of emotion he'd caused her to feel, helpless to stop it or him. She was disgusted, she was offended… but there was something more to the thrill singing through her. An awareness, that hadn't been there before. She'd never been touched like that. It had been years since she'd hugged even Uther or Gaius, and hugging Gwen was a matter of comfort and affection, not… this.

What was this? There was no reason for details to flash into her senses, unbidden – the feathery brush of his lips, the way his body moved when he breathed against her, the scrape of his knuckles against the stone, holding her in place but still keeping her from harm. _Not_ taking purity, or self-respect… was that what made her feel ill to think of Morgause and Cenred? The idea that Morgause had given something up that she'd never even thought to prize…

Morgana breathed deeply and evenly, and opened her eyes to see that she was positioned to be able to see herself in one half of her dressing table mirror, far enough away that she could almost be a stranger.

She moved her hand to touch her mouth; she'd never been kissed before, at all, and she shivered to remember his lips on hers, the touch of his tongue…

Disgusting and offensive… thrilling, awakening. Should she be grateful she'd failed to seduce him, glad that there was no more of the encounter to remember?

He'd been angry; he'd done it to shock her into listening, which was underhanded and thoroughly rude. But something had changed. Before he broke away from her and she'd shoved him further, she'd felt something different. Apology and… tenderness.

"Oh, I hate him!" she said vehemently, even as tears sparked to her eyes.

It was all his fault. There was something wrong with him, why hadn't he agreed, like Cenred had done with Morgause? Why hadn't his jaw stayed dropped, why hadn't he stuttered through answers like many of the knights when she'd worn that dress? Why hadn't he forgotten his shy kitchen girl, in comparison to her?

A muffled noise behind her alerted her, and she stepped forward just in time to avoid the door as Gwen pushed through, carrying an armful of linen.

"Oh! Morgana, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were just there," she exclaimed. Her skin glowed with the pace of her work, and her black ringlets tightened damply at temple and nape.

"It's all right," Morgana said, moving out of her way. "I was just thinking. I shouldn't have been standing there."

"Thinking of what?" Gwen asked, moving to the bed – which Morgana now saw had been stripped of sheets. Her tone and the glance over her shoulder were undeniably – unbearably – hopeful.

Morgana drifted to her dressing table and perched on the stool – but avoided looking at her reflection. She felt the pull of old friendship, the melancholy ache she'd felt all year when remembering Camelot, that they didn't know her and wouldn't understand…

But she and Gwen had never really had this discussion before, at least not since they were in their early teens and giggling over knights at practice ten years older than they were. Not since the first betrayal of her maturing body, and the knights had begun looking back – and the realization that Morgana would have to marry, eventually. Probably a stranger who wouldn't be attractive or likeable, they'd decided then, and she wouldn't feel gratitude to Uther for relenting on the issue more than once.

"Gwen," she said, without really planning her speech. Maybe they couldn't really _talk_ , not til this was over and she could _explain_ , but surely an unrelated topic was safe for conversation and a step toward reconnection? She wished she could discuss this with Morgause, but that was impossible for many reasons. "You're old enough to marry… why haven't you?"

Her maid paused in surprise, leaning over from the far side of the mattress, pillow in her hand.

"I mean," Morgana continued, affecting indifference. "You've kissed a couple of the servant boys, haven't you?"

"Oh, Morgana, that's been years," Gwen defended herself, blushing. "That was… flirtation. Attraction. Not… the sort of love that makes you want to marry someone. Sooner or later he stops being a pretty face or a fine figure and then you realize he's annoying or dull or… immoral, or something."

"So you've felt attraction, but you've never been in love," Morgana mused.

"Not with someone I could actually marry," Gwen responded, dropping her eyes and busying her hands. "I'm fortunate, actually, that I've got a place with my brother, and work here with you and Gaius – there's no pressure for me to find a husband to provide."

Morgana forgot the implicit question in the first comment her friend made – _so you've been in love with someone you can't marry?_ \- focused on sorting her own feelings. "So – if it's attraction, and not… love, you might feel… disgusted with yourself, afterwards. Angry with him, even in the middle of…" She waved her hand to vaguely describe the feelings churning their unwelcome way through nerves and senses.

"I suppose. Do you remember how I used to think Arthur was cute, even when we both hated him? And the time that… Oh." Gwen let the coverlet she'd flapped in the air settle on the smoothed sheets, concentrating on Morgana. "You're speaking of one man specifically, aren't you?"

The image of Merlin in his cell – Caerleon indigo shirtsleeves, silver chain around his neck, blue eyes sparking passionately – flashed before her mind's eye. "Yes," she admitted, drawing the word out hesitantly. "If this attraction is – involuntary, how long will it last?"

"No one can know that in advance," Gwen said gently, coming out from around the bed to crouch at Morgana's feet, balancing herself with one hand on the dressing table. "But, Morgana – even if it's the first time you've felt this, don't deny yourself the possibility of love. Sometimes when you get to know someone better, it can be surprising how much you start to like them. You deserve to be happy, no matter who he is-"

Morgana snorted. Happiness with the infuriating, provoking prince of Caerleon? Impossible. But Morgause had instructed her to attach him… Which brought her very close to the topic she'd determined to avoid until _after_.

"What if magic was involved?" she asked narrowly. "Would you help me to be with someone who had magic? You'd have me find happiness with a sorcerer?"

"It would depend," Gwen said carefully, looking away and wrinkling her brow in thought. "I think… maybe magic can be used for good things. If he was a good man, and we trusted him to take care of you, and not put you in danger – but that would mean leaving Camelot, and that would be hard, but… We would help you," Gwen decided earnestly. "If you think the king would be mad – even if you think Arthur would be mad, I would help you. And Gaius-"

"Don't tell Gaius," Morgana commanded immediately.

"Okay, I won't." Gwen hesitated, then added, "And if you've mistaken attraction for love, you don't have to feel… obligated. You're not married, are you?" She chuckled, but _watched_ Morgana for her huff of denial. "So this is still your home, and you can stay forever. Til you _do_ find love."

Morgana relaxed, smiling to realize she did feel better. These emotions didn't mean anything, it was just attraction. Knowing that, she could ignore it – or accept it and use it, possibly, like she'd used other unasked for changes in her life. And it was good to know that Gwen had considered magic wasn't evil.

Or, that not all magic was evil… was some magic evil, then? Merlin certainly thought so…

"The king is worse this morning," Gwen ventured, pushing to her feet and turning back to smooth and straighten the bedding over clean sheets.

And just that quickly, Morgana's self-possession was threatened again. If Merlin couldn't sense the mandrake she'd handled, how on earth could he have guessed she'd been exposed to any magic at all? Unless he was made uneasy by the power – like she'd felt in touching the rowan staff – and mistakenly labeled it dark.

"Gaius said he found him in the corner of the chamber, and incoherent, unable even to describe what he's seeing anymore. He didn't think the king had been in his bed all night, and probably caught a chill because of it. He's given him a sleeping draught and put him back to bed even though it's daytime, but the nightmares-"

She swallowed a lump in her throat, resisting the feeling of guilt. It was as Morgause said – his own memories would haunt him. Whatever he was seeing or feeling, it wasn't her fault, but his own.

"He and Arthur wondered if maybe it was magic – you know, the bad kind, like an enchantment? And they asked Prince Merlin what he thought, and he said to look for a cursed object–"

Damn his interference, Morgana thought, tension drawing her uncomfortably stiff, as she pretended to listen with half an ear, fussing with the items on her dressing-tabletop.

"But Uther refuses to let anyone in but the two of them, not even his manservant to clean the chamber, and they couldn't find it – but I can't help but think, Arthur wouldn't really want to go through his father's things _thoroughly_ , and maybe Gaius would miss something because he can't readily bend over, or reach very far above his head…"

"Thank you, Gwen, that will be all," Morgana blurted, trying to fix a carefree smile on her face. "I know there's so much to do – I won't selfishly keep you from assisting in the efforts for preparation."

"Thank you," Gwen said uncertainly. But bobbed a little curtsy of acquiescence and departed.

The rowan staff tucked out of sight beneath her bed thrummed serenely, more noticeable now that she was alone in the room, but Morgana eyed the ruffle hiding it with mistrust.

She hadn't handled the prince with magic very well. How was this going to go, tonight?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin had a hard time sleeping, that night. Thinking of Freya wasn't restful, when the image of Morgana – in that dress, red lips dropped open for quickened breathing, eyes slightly hooded in reaction to his kiss – came along whenever he called up recollections of the girl who held his heart.

Decreasingly vivacious memories. And the ache of missing her was no longer pure, it was sullied by the knowledge that he'd hurt her, when he saw her again. Because of course he'd tell her about this. Make his confession, seek her forgiveness…

One more person whose disappointment he had to anticipate upon his eventual return home. And King Thurston would have had him kill Arthur and accept Tythan and the others as casualties, to hold Stonedown and Evorwick. And he'd probably have Merlin negotiate some beneficial pact with Lady Morgana and her sister, to bring Camelot down. Maybe not the mindless immoral gratification of his body's base desire, but… something.

And Annis? What would she have him do?

Alator would counsel patience, something Merlin was occasionally very bad at. Freya would say, _just come home safely_ – or would she, if she knew what he'd done today? Hunith would tell him to listen to his heart, and do nothing he'd regret…

Except he already regretted this whole trip. Blood on his hands and a chain around his neck. And even without the tangible sensations reminding him of either of those things, a hot metallic tang filled his nostrils and coated his tongue and his breathing labored as he tried to sleep. The twisting paths toward slumber were filled with the faint cries of the distressed and the damned, threatening shadows shuddered around the corners of his mind…

Merlin bolted upright, wide awake.

Traces of smoke floated on the faint orange glow lighting the air in his cell. The great stone blocks of the citadel trembled around him, and the screams and calls and cries of its inhabitants were on the edge of audible, but real.

He vaulted from the bed and tensed in the middle of the cell, wishing he could use magic to _see_ what was going on. _What if war broke out_ …

Maybe it had. What should he do? He couldn't just sit back, as Morgana said, safe in his cell. There were people here who couldn't defend themselves – Gwen and Gaius among them. And maybe if Arthur was killed, Merlin could consider himself no longer obliged to stay and cooperate – but he didn't really want to be freed from his vow in such a manner.

He faced the door of his cell. Forget about blasting hinges, the few seconds of concentration unlocking took were preferable to the expenditure of strength an instantaneous explosion would require. But if he left the cell to roam the citadel, would they see him and treat him as an enemy…

Abruptly Merlin leaped up the steps and peered through the tiny view-window. "Hello?" he called. "Is anyone there? What's going on?"

No answer. He wasn't really surprised to find that the cell-guards would join the other defenders if the citadel came under attack.

Who was attacking? What if they included magic-users?

Merlin took a deep breath, bracing himself on the stone doorway, focusing and preparing. Then – " _Unclyse thaes wundordae_!"

The _Endel-Easnes_ did its damndest to throttle the magic, gripping his throat with pain and no air and a throbbing tightness in his jaw and eyes – and left the base of his skull aching as it passed. No more magic. He blinked, and pushed at the door; it opened and he ventured out.

"Hello?" Just to be sure.

No answer.

Merlin jogged forward, heading for the stair, glad he'd changed into the white shirt Gaius had let him keep – less immediately identifiable than his Caerleon indigo. He could be taken for a servant, probably, when he got to ground level and asked to be directed to Gaius. Dust shivered down in flickering torchlight, and that wasn't just an attack, that was siege warfare. Noncombatant casualties. Gwen would probably be with the physician; Merlin figured he could defend and protect the infirmary without compromising the standards of enmity between his kingdom and this.

There was a little room tucked under and behind the stairs, behind the guards' makeshift and abandoned furniture. He glimpsed a spear rack and immediately doubled back to find a secondary armory of sorts.

Would anyone think it strange for a servant to go about armed, tonight? Merlin scanned a stand of swords and chose on instinct, darting back to the door and grabbing the lintel to swing himself around and-

Pain lanced through his body as he was speared from behind, abruptly and viciously, right through his spine just down from his shoulder-blades. He gasped, gripping the doorway to stay on his feet. Fire rippled down his legs like a gush of blood – hot, then cold.

He'd been wrong – the armory wasn't deserted, they hadn't taken him for a harmless servant…

But he was still standing. Not passing out because there was no blood left for his brain – not falling because his backbone was severed. The devastating sensations were diminishing; he risked freeing his supporting hand to reach behind him-

Feeling shirt material, damp from fever-dream sweat, not slick with blood.

And he realized. Just as he hadn't heard the whispers of the magical condemned with his _ears_ , he hadn't been stabbed just now in his _back_. It was magic. And that sort of sensation could only come from the worst perversion of dark magic.

He closed his eyes and inhaled – yes, there was that taint. Another deep breath, his head turning on his neck to follow… there.

It wasn't up, but down. Merlin didn't hesitate; he sprinted in the direction his senses told him was the origin of that foul _wrong_ ness. Through a subterranean warren of storerooms and cells, locked doors and other stairs – he burst into an enormous man-made cavern at the top of it, stone steps leading down, and the rectangular stone boxes laid out in rows immediately identified the chamber.

Crypts. Not royalty, and probably not nobility – too many, and not grouped by families – organized as he'd seen the red-cloaked patrols march. The tombs of faithful knights, those who'd favored this arrangement over a funeral pyre.

Beams of unnatural light stabbed through the murky air – five-ten-twenty-more – from a focal point at the center of the room, outward to each stone box.

Merlin gagged, feeling bile rise in his throat at the churning of twisted magic within each tomb. The corner of the doorway cut into his back, and he realized he was trying to retreat; planting his feet deliberately, he stood his ground.

One lid exploded from within, a bony arm reaching upward without connecting sinew, without moving muscle. Then another, and another, all over the crypt – skeleton warriors rising from their graves, the swords they'd been buried with to honor their service and sacrifice, in hand.

His chest heaved with the need for clear air. Surely this was not some last resort officially sanctioned, not by magic-hating Camelot. Not for a citadel reputed to be infallibly defensible… unless there was an army raised invincible inside their walls.

The beams of light cleared, leaving one lone slender shaft in the middle of the floor, cracks in the flagstones spidering away like poisoned veins.

A conduit. Wood, he knew instinctively, and newly cut. Not yet dead but unable to live, like bone ripped out of breathing flesh and flowing blood. Helplessly sucking life from the earth – he felt its wounds as his own – but incapable of retaining the quickening flow it invariably forced upon loyal bones long dry.

And the girl beside it. Wearing dark trousers and boots, a silvery shirt of fine mail and with a girdle of plate-mail over it. Dressed for battle.

Lady Morgana.

He caught his breath and spun back to the door, even as the first clattering skeleton reached the bottom of the step beneath him. One heave, and the great beam tipped from its ancient ready-position, slamming down into square iron brackets on the door.

"What are you _doing_?" Morgana shouted.

He ignored her. He tried to ignore the footbones clicking and tapping up the stairs toward him – would they attack him? What level of intelligence did they possess? Skill without memory, drive without direction? Who would they attack?

There was irony in the spell he used, forcing the words out and mouthing them stubbornly to the finish. " _Ne unclyse utan min wondordae_!"

For an instant he thought the first skeletal warrior had reached him, to squeeze bony fingers around his neck. Black went gray, and his knees dropped him – right over the unguarded side of the stair to the crypt floor.

He tumbled bruise over bruise, gasping for air that had been knocked away just as the chain at his neck released. At least he was out of the path of the dead knights, responding to someone else's call. He pushed himself up shakily, able to see Morgana and the staff – still glowing at the tip - between giant supporting columns, carved in the images of veiled mourners, or departing spirits.

"What are _you_ doing?" he called back, angry again.

The first of the skeletons banged on the crypt-door with the hilt of his sword, and others joined it, a rhythmless dissonance covering Morgana's footsteps as she stalked toward him. She held a sword in her hand, and watched upward to the door as the spell and the beam-bar held the knights inside the tomb.

"What have you done?" she demanded, sounding a bit shrill – bloodlessly pale but for eyes and lips. The opposite of calm and confident. "You have to let them out. Camelot must fall quickly, or more lives will be lost!"

"You've got to be joking!" he returned, finding and retrieving the borrowed sword he'd dropped in his short fall off the side of the stairs. "You hate Uther this much? Have you no regard for your own soul, or the dishonor you bring to these – bones of good and faithful men? You've desecrated a sacred tree and twisted the guardian spirit inside to force it to necromancy – for what? For one man? You may kill more innocent people tonight than Uther did in all his years falsely condemning sorcery!"

She stopped in her tracks, sword hanging loose and forgotten at her side, shock dropping her mouth open. "What?"

"I'll explain later," he said impatiently; she still didn't know what she was doing, at all. "First let's end this." His breastbone was shuddering in his chest, tension at the reversal of life and death like a dirge-drone just on the edge of hearing.

She caught his sleeve as he strode past her. "Stop it," she said shortly. Her eyes were frightened and lost, and he guessed she was carrying on whatever plan had been formulated to make her an integral part of it because she couldn't see any other way forward from here. "You said you wouldn't help – so just stay out of our way."

"I can't," he said, trying to ease gently away from her. "This isn't right. Magic isn't given to men to wield however they wish, it's a sacred trust – to put an end to abominations like this."

He tugged again and this time she let him go – but swung her sword at him. Like she might have swung a stick, without any real plan or aim, but to distract or hinder him. He bent backward, avoiding the blade easily.

"Can't you feel it," he said, backing toward the staff – but raising his own weapon defensively. She followed, fire igniting intention in her eyes – emotion overcoming logic, just as Alator always taught him _not_ to do. "The pain, doesn't that make you feel sick and cold?"

She slashed at him and he blocked easily; she stabbed and he knocked her blade away.

"The pain of the earth," he persisted. "Of the tree – of this well-earned rest of these men, so destructively disturbed – can't you _feel_ that?"

"Shut up!" she hissed, and he couldn't tell if it was because she was ignoring his words – or bothered by them. She crouched slightly to menace him with blade leveled in front of her. He continued to retreat – toward the staff. "You don't know – you don't know! Her plan is clever and it will work and Uther will be dethroned and our kind will be free!"

"Free to practice dark magic so carelessly, and defile the holy places?" he demanded incredulously. "Better the Ban remain in place!"

"You traitor!" she spat. "I'll kill you!"

Wildly she swung, and he parried, unwilling to hurt her – she knew what she was doing, but was definitely out of practice. And logic – for if she killed him, she might be locked in here forever. Not that he would let that happen.

"Dammit, Morgana, think!" he shouted as he jumped back from a cut aimed at disemboweling him. "You haven't yet done anything unforgiveable – you're not responsible for anyone's death – just _stop_!"

"She is counting on me!" Morgana panted. "I will not disappoint her!"

Emotion rather than logic; devotion to the person, not the ideology. For one instant his heart throbbed in concert. Uther was a tyrant, it was true, his soul stained thick and dark with innocent blood. And Merlin had family also he did not wish to disappoint with failure, even if it meant ignoring his own conscience and doing things he regretted.

"It doesn't have to be like this," Merlin tried, one more time. "We can find another way-"

"There is no other way!" Morgana shrieked.

Too focused on following and obeying and pleasing. He wished with all his heart that he'd said the same thing to his king, and insisted…

But if Morgana had forgotten their position in the room, he hadn't. Another duck and twist, and he cut right through the staff stabbed through the stone heart of Camelot's citadel, into the ancient earth beneath.

One spell. Surely he had the endurance for one quick – " _Snaede_!"

Cut the scabbed runes carved into living wood along the shaft. Released the spirit from its wracking agony of trying to live while it died, of pulling magic from one side of the balance-scale to the other. Snapped the tension of the backwards life-and-death flow even as his throat closed and his vision blacked for an instant.

The gnarled little nest of snapped roots, upward to the air of the crypt instead of down in the earth where they belonged, went flying, light extinguished immediately. Merlin staggered back, the sword falling from his hand, even as the bones of the skeleton army still trying to pound and push their way through the magically-barred crypt door all dropped lifelessly.

The dry rattle amplified as each piece bounced and ricocheted, a stack of indiscriminate body parts pouring over each other and rolling down the stairs, spilling over the side to the floor in a macabre heap.

All ye gods in heaven. Was there no peace even in death?

Keeping Morgana in the corner of his eye – staring at the broken stump of the staff, sword dangling from nerveless fingers, her temper abated at the clear failure of her mission – he braced himself on the nearest tomb and readied his magic. Hopefully this wouldn't kill him. _Lady of the Mountain, if you have any remaining strength, or power in gratitude…_

The words were silent, enunciated within his own mind, formed and shaped and crafted before he released the magic into the world to _act_ with a rising shout of defiance and tenacity.

 _Rihteath thaes geban… Gebeteath tha oferweorc… Onspen thaet wealldor!_

 **A/N:** _ **Curs-tacn**_ **;** literally curse-token **.** _ **Unclyse thaes wondordae**_ **–** unlock this (actof) magic; contrarily **,** _ **Ne unclyse utan min wondordae**_ **–** do not unlock this without my (act of) magic **.** _ **Snaede**_ **–** the spell Merlin uses at that moment in the episode,meaningcut/prune **.** _ **Rihteath thaes geban… Gebeteath tha oferweorc… Onspen thaet wealldor –**_ (approx.)restore the bones, rebuild the tombs, release the door.

 **Some dialogue from ep.3.2 "The Tears of Uther Pendragon."**

 **The rowan tree is often called "Lady of the Mountain." It is one of the most sacred trees in Scottish folk tradition; if you're interested in the website, message me; or just trust me that I'm quoting from the site. I'm going to be referring to this body of information for future discussions of Morgause's use of the staff.**

 **Also, btw, this isn't the finale though it may feel like it. We're only about halfway through the story I want to tell, maybe not even… Sorry for the temporary cliffie, I'll get right on the Arthur &Merlin scenes that come next chapter!  
**


	13. Soldier's Motives

**Chapter 13: Soldier's Motives**

"Annis."

She reacted to Hunith's unusual use of her first name instinctively, looking to the open door of the day-room even as Hunith paused in extinguishing the lamps for the night to do the same.

The two envoys from Camelot stood just outside the door, conversing quietly but intently – a disagreement, Annis guessed – and thought she also knew why. They'd waited politely enough, all day yesterday, but their disappointment at retiring for the night without audience with the absent king was obvious – as was their growing impatience, through the day.

Annis had played the hostess smoothly enough herself, though she hadn't offered to act as regent in her husband's stead, capable though she was and willing though Thurstan was. He – and therefore they – were playing for time, and while the knights might have delivered their missive to her had she asked, yesterday morning, it had taken them til now to decide-

"My lady," said the one with short curly brown hair and full beard, turning away from his companion to enter the room. Sir Stanbeorg, she recalled. Sir Carles followed him silently, taller and thinner and younger.

"Sir Knights," she said, standing from behind the writing desk. "Was there something you needed? I was about to retire for the night…"

"Your Majesty," Sir Stanbeorg said gravely, uncrossing his arms to reveal a small scroll, bound with a red ribbon and sealed with a wax only slightly darker in color in his hand. "Our errand is not one that admits for indefinite delay – seeing as His Majesty remains absent, perhaps you will do us the courtesy of receiving this message in his place?"

And there it was. Diplomacy was another sort of warfare, one she was more skilled in than her husband – hence the hunting trip – but now they intended to come to grips and quit circling. She'd hoped to defer them til the morning with talk of retiring, but evidently manners only stretched so far, even for Knights of Camelot. She kept her sigh internal, and her face even as she held out her hand to accept the scroll.

"Of course. If that is what you think best."

Sir Stanbeorg looked round at Sir Carles, who gave him a faint grimace – presumably the younger man would prefer to wait for the king, as they'd probably been instructed. "Yes, Your Majesty. And thank you."

"Perhaps I should read it in private," she proposed, "and have a response ready for you in the morning?" _Parry, and counter_ …

"If it's all the same to Your Majesty," Sir Stanbeorg said, bowing politely. "Perhaps you could do us the honor of reading it in our presence? You must know that we've come about your prince…"

"Indeed," Annis said, gesturing toward the collection of cushioned chairs.

With her back to the two men, she exchanged a glance with Hunith – whose eyes dropped to the missive Annis held with mute desperation. And for a moment, she felt a pang of guilt. Merlin's mother trusted his ability to take care of himself, as they did – but these delays were probably hardest on her. So, depending on the message itself, Annis had a pretty clear idea of the tactic to employ next.

She seated herself calmly. Sir Stanbeorg sat; Sir Carles didn't. Hunith drifted behind the high back of Annis' chair and she tilted the opened parchment for the other woman to read over her shoulder.

 _Your Majesties of Caerleon, greetings from Arthur Pendragon, prince of Camelot._

Well. That was unexpected. The prince, not the king?

 _As I am certain that your warriors carried to you an accurate report of our encounter with Prince Merlin–_

He'd told them his name. Interesting.

 _-just outside Stonedown, which of course lies upon our side of the border and constitutes a breach in the existing treaty between our kingdoms, I address this letter to you to discuss the terms under which we will release our hostage, your heir, back to his rightful place. Below you will find a list of damages incurred, both actual and personal, as well as a recitation of consequences according to the standing treaty signed between King Uther Pendragon and Gethin, the late king of Caerleon. Upon receipt of these funds and a renewal of the treaty signatures, we are prepared to escort Prince Merlin to a prearranged location on the border and release him to return home. We anticipate the arrival of your timely reply by our two messengers, Sir Stanbeorg and Sir Carles of Camelot._

Annis kept her face impassive as she read, and trusted Hunith to do the same. But never had Thurston capitulated to any demand of any man – nor would he. The amount – she glanced down the itemized list and found it surprisingly fair – was irrelevant.

Though of course she couldn't _say_ that, not at the beginning of negotiations her husband obviously intended to drag out as long as possible.

And then there was no mention made of Merlin's magic.

Annis laid the page carefully in her lap, and lifted her face to the two knights. "I suppose you came prepared to prove your claim of our prince hostage?"

Sir Carles, on his feet behind his companion's chair, shifted his weight and glanced at the back of Sir Stanbeorg's head, who said calmly, "I beg your pardon?"

"I am supposed to believe you hold my prince hostage, and pour gold into your hands trusting to his return? What guarantee do I have of his status, now or after?"

The knight cocked his head, frowning a little. "But surely your men – the warriors released when your prince surrendered of his own volition – have born witness to the fact of his capture."

"That was nearly a week ago," Annis reminded him mildly. "Perhaps Prince Merlin took opportunity to escape – how then should we pay you for a freedom he's already achieved for himself?"

"By his honor, the agreement-"

"Or perhaps," Annis said, hardening her voice and hoping Hunith had the sense to remain still – and that she'd forgive her. "Perhaps Camelot has not honored their side of that agreement, and our prince is dead already. How shall we pay you then, for his body?"

Hunith made a very quiet sound of pain. Neither man looked at her; they hadn't heard.

"I swear to you-" Sir Stanbeorg began.

"Camelot and Caerleon are not allies, there can be no trust of honor alone," Annis said, not unkindly. "I don't know you personally, Sir Knight. And if I did take you at your word, that our prince was hale and hearty when last you saw him – that has been four days, by now? Anything might have happened in your absence."

The knight drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair once, then glanced up at his companion.

"Gentlemen," Annis said. _Time to win the match; going to make it easy for you boys._ "I would not venture to agree to these terms, or to make a counter-offer without the king's approval, in any case. And I believe he would echo my protests for reassurance, exactly what we are expected to purchase with our settlement. Therefore, if it is acceptable to you…" She paused, reaching out to Hunith in spirit if not in fact. "I will prepare to accompany you back to Camelot to ascertain our prince's state of health and well-being, before the king consents to negotiate these terms."

Sir Stanbeorg's bearded face relaxed slightly in the weariness of further disappointment. He saw the delay for what it was, at least – and weren't they eager to resolve this matter of a hostage? Generally speaking, it should be the other way around in ransom negotiations…

"Just you, Your Majesty?" the knight probed delicately.

"Myself, and an attendant." Annis gestured upward at Hunith waiting behind her. Freya would be disappointed to lose the chance to see Merlin, to see for herself that he was physically fine – but Hunith still held the greater right, and Annis didn't need two, and the older woman was likelier to keep her head if the situation in Camelot was such to require that. "And an escort."

"A single escort," Sir Stanbeorg said.

Annis bowed her head to accede gracefully. Not Tythan, but one of the other older ones who could be trusted to hold his temper and act to her order. "And a written oath of safe passage, signed in the name of your prince."

Something shifted at the corners of his eyes and to either side of his mouth – something like a smile left unexpressed. "Of course, Your Majesty," he said. "We will be ready to leave whenever you yourself are, in the morning."

Annis rose smoothly. "I look forward to the journey. Good night, gentlemen."

Sir Stanbeorg stood beside his friend and both bowed to return the sentiment, and excuse themselves.

In the time it took them to reach the door and disappear beyond it, Annis allowed herself to think of Merlin. The bright childish happiness – the youthful resolution to learn what was required – the subdued manner with which he'd taken leave. Like the bright flame of a candle, burning down, guttering low, and it hurt so that she almost forgot her composure to clench a fist over her heart.

"Shall I inform Maegden…" Hunith said quietly – calmly, but her voice wavered, and she had to pause to clear her throat.

"No." Annis faced her, and tried to smile. Tried not to think of the moment long ago in a mud hut in a farming village, when she'd persuaded this remarkable woman to share her even more remarkable son. "Pack your things, Hunith. Come with me to Camelot."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur cursed. And for a moment, wished that there was some effective power behind his words, that he didn't have to stand and _watch_ a dozen fire-drenched catapult-vessels arc toward his city.

"How the hell did they get siege engines here so fast?" he demanded of Sir Munt, who had stopped beside him on the battlements at the sight of the battle beginning.

 _Hells… here it comes._

Sir Munt made a sound like a groan in the back of his throat, watching the flaming spheres hurtle downward to smash in the lower town. Fire splashed explosively when they landed – and though the walls might be stone and mud-brick and mortar, there was enough lumber and thatch to _burn_. Which was, of course, one of the functions of the lower town – siege engines could not be brought close enough to the citadel to land a damaging shot there, but he hated to actually sacrifice the homes and shops of the hard-working citizens of his kingdom's capital.

At least their lives would be saved…

"Come on," he said to the knight grimly, stalking along the route that led to the corridor-tunnel of the disguised sally-port.

The answer to his question was beside the point, he fumed; the catapults were _here_ on the ridge just below the tree-line of the forest. Did it matter how they'd gotten there? Magic, of course.

He cursed again, more for the lack of any weapons or tactics to counter these kinds of attacks – not the first damn time, either – than to blame the power behind the user. Too much to hope that his father's illness was a coincidence, either – but that was a thought to deal with after tonight, if they survived. Exactly how his father had been cursed, if it wasn't the sorcerer prince of Caerleon.

Along the corridor walls of the sally-port entrance to the citadel, men sharpened swords, laying them over sleeves to squint down the lengths of their weapons. Arthur grimaced briefly at the stones in the ceiling; they would hold. They had to hold. They were built to hold…

Every eye was on him, every man intent with the comprehension of his orders. Even in chainmail and armed with skill and steel, these men were not built to hold, not like the insensible stone…

Arthur's heart ached to know, not everyone would come back. He cleared his throat roughly, taking his place at the head of the column.

"For the love of Camelot!"

The echoing cry of defiance filled the corridor – and Arthur led them out.

Leon was in charge of the defense at the main gate. Barricades had been erected throughout the lower town to impede the progress of the mercenaries as the last of the fleeing refugees sought entrance to the citadel – but now those knights would be in danger themselves from the incendiary catapult-shot. In danger of being cut off from their route of retreat, too. Arthur hoped that Leon could hold the mercenaries' attention at the main gate, and allow the last few noncombatants to slip in through the sally-port, before they closed the portcullis and locked the gate and waited to see what the morning would bring.

The port door was behind a double-fold in the wall, invisible unless you knew it was there, and two men could barely move abreast through the passage. Arthur emerged first, glancing both ways down the dark, deserted street – charcoal night and orange embers lifting, glowing smoke several avenues away – before venturing out and motioning for his troops to move swiftly and silently.

Keeping the sally-port hidden and heading away from the main gate Leon was defending, Arthur was alert for the furtive movement of frightened townspeople, or countrymen unfamiliar with the turns and corners of the lower town. Guards from the barricades falling back in a controlled pattern.

He was sweating in his armor already, half his mind on the section of town they would scout, having to trust the other troops with clearing other quarters. They came around a corner to see a ragged family – two adults and a child – staggeringly trying to maneuver a large hand-cart. Past them – his attention jerked to a point by the threat – mercenaries were beginning to swarm one of the unmanned barricades.

"On me!" he bellowed, sprinting forward with his sword raised.

The family emitted a series of yelps as he passed – the last pair in his formation would see them to the sally-port. Without their cart, of course, but they should be all right…

Arthur bent to heave a long bench to the top of the makeshift barricade, bracing his boots on an uneven pair of crates to rain blow after blow down on the invaders trying to breach the blockage. Others joined him; it was one of a myriad of sensations absorbed into his latent awareness of the situation. They defended, beating the mercenaries back – every second counted, to let the little family scurry to the port – none in the horde ahead of them had crossbows-

The illumination of the street increased rapidly and exponentially, and Arthur had a bare moment to duck behind the bench at the top of the barricade when another clay vessel full of burning oil smashed just short of the barrier on the other side. A wall of hot air slammed him off the crates and onto the cobblestone street, momentarily driving the air out of him. Battle cries became screams of the wounded – but the barricade was burning. What was left of the mercenary troop would not be passing this way.

Arthur pushed himself up. His hand and arm were numb but not so much that he couldn't feel the hilt of his sword.

One of his knights was helping another – limping, leaning heavily – back up the street in retreat. The others were rising and regrouping around him.

"On me," Arthur gritted, heading to the next street.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin came to consciousness alone in the underground crypt. The pieces of the staff were gone; he reflected that he should be glad Morgana didn't stab him with them, or something.

The air was clear, as he drew one raggedly-echoing breath after another, and dragged his bruised limbs around into a standing arrangement. Quiet, and still. And maybe there were still spider-silk fractures in the lid of the tomb supporting his weight, but every skeleton was once again covered and embraced in the stone of the earth, resting in the dust of his body and former glory.

But around and above him, the citadel still shivered and sifted dust from whatever bombardment assailed from without.

Merlin tightened his fingers around the hilt of his sword and jogged to the stairs, up and out. Each breath rasped tenderly over the inside of his throat, and he felt as if he'd been fighting half the night. But with any luck, Morgana's sister would realize this part of the plan had failed, that the citadel would stand, and call off whatever army had been formed outside the walls.

It was a chapel, overhead, and it was filled with light and people, rows of people who didn't notice his arrival sitting or lying on tables or cots or benches, most presenting some bloodied wound, clutching at bandages makeshift or official.

Another ironic comparison to the rows of men laid out in the crypts beneath their feet.

One row over and two patients away, Gaius in a brown tunic-apron over an enveloping bleached smock bent over a still figure in chainmail, bloodied fingers feeling at the pulse point in his neck. Beyond him, Merlin identified Gwen's dusky skin and black curls over the shoulder of a lavender dress; she was focused on the sword arm or hand of a blond knight. A stocky young man with even darker skin and tighter curls stood beside her, silently intent on their exchange. As Merlin moved for Gaius, he noticed the young man at Gwen's side wore smith's leathers and carried a hammer in one hand and what appeared to be a chisel in the other.

"Merlin!" Gaius said, turning and startling greatly to see him. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"I felt the… disturbance," Merlin simplified. "What is it, an attacking army? So very far from boring… I came to see that you were all right, and make sure you and any injured are protected."

Gaius made a face like saying _Ah!_ in enlightenment, but any further response was interrupted.

"You just came to see," another voice drawled, and he turned to see that the blond knight Gwen had been tending was Prince Arthur. Dirty and disheveled, exhausted and bloodied, and ignoring the fact that Gwen was trying to tuck the ends of a tied bandage under the plate-mail vambrace on his sword-arm. The other dark-skinned young man followed behind them, eyes intent on Merlin.

"The guards were gone," Merlin said. "I had no one to ask what was going on."

For a moment he was sure the other prince was going to snap a retort, but then Pendragon sagged just slightly. Too-damn-tired, Merlin diagnosed; he could relate.

"Cenred brought an army of mercenaries," he said. "Twenty thousand. We're outnumbered two to one…"

So of course they'd taken refuge in defending their stronghold; Merlin gave a quick nod of silent agreement with the tactic. But there was the rest of the kingdom's people to think of, and siege warfare could take _months_. Years, sometimes.

"We evacuated the lower town," Arthur continued. "But there are always those that are too stubborn to leave their homes – and the last of the refugees trying to gain the citadel without being slaughtered. They began with a barrage from catapults, covered with oil-soaked leather and set alight. But… didn't wait before sending the first wave of mercenaries on foot."

Right into the middle of their own bombardment; that was pretty ruthless.

"Damn Cenred," Merlin gave his opinion – and was not a little surprised to have the same words come out of Pendragon's mouth at the same time.

"We've taken some losses, but every man who can still fight is going back out," Pendragon continued, with a gesture back at the young smith, who shifted and clenched his chisel.

"It's my friends out there, my neighbors," the smith said softly, as much to reassure himself, Merlin thought, as excuse his decision to the others. Gwen dried a quick tear on the cuff of her sleeve to keep from touching her face with her bare fingers.

"Until we're sure all our people are cleared out of the line of fire, and the town." The prince's jaw clenched; Merlin glimpsed and rather envied the deep layer of bedrock resolve under the weariness.

People. Just people, and their defenders trying to get them to safety from an invading force. Merlin nodded, making his own decision.

"I'll join you," he said. "If you'll have me."

Pendragon looked down at the sword in Merlin's hand as if seeing it for the first time – but he was aware of Gaius and Gwen exchanging a dubious look, and the smith narrowing his eyes. Merlin was pretty sure he wasn't one of the ones who'd come to strike him while he was chained to the stocks, and figured he didn't have to worry about him.

"I won't fight for your kingdom," he clarified, addressing the prince. "But people who can't defend themselves – doesn't matter who they are or where they're from. I will help you defend your people." Even if it was magic-users who were attacking, along with mercenaries and incendiary catapult-artillery.

Pendragon gave a single heavy nod, and raised his eyes to Merlin's neck. "Honestly, I rather wish that damn thing was off, tonight, if you're inclined to defense," he said. Merlin glanced at Gaius for explanation, but all he got was a tightening of the old man's lips. "Do you remember how I told you, the Knights of Medhir weren't at Idirsholas?"

Merlin felt blood drain from his face, and mentally repeated the foulest oath he knew.

Pendragon met his eyes. "They came here, tonight."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur's vambrace had been driven down into his hand – not much more than a deep scrape, no bones broken or sinews severed, but it ached in spite of the bandage Gwen had quickly tied. His head ached, and his heart. The last man of his troop had fallen so that Arthur could scoop up the injured woman from her exhausted husband's arms, and escape with them to the sally-port.

Was this his new troop? Elyan the blacksmith, Gwen's brother, armed with the tools of his forge. And the prince of Caerleon, somehow armed and out of his cell, at least offering to help the villagers.

Part of Arthur snarled about _why did he care now? he'd killed villagers in his raid._ Part of him thought the younger prince might regret that and be seeking to atone. Because if he trusted Merlin, and Merlin turned on him _now_ …

But he seemed unable to see around that last ghastly image. The chapel-turned-hospital warm with golden lamplight became a street lit with fire. The people still on their feet around him – women tending the wounded, knights supporting comrades to a place of safety – coalesced into four massive shrouded figures, black-hooded and fully-masked, circled around a pile of corpses on fire, looking simultaneously up from it to him…

"You're sure about that." Merlin's voice, low and dismayed.

Almost immediately, Gwen's murmur followed – "Arthur, are you all right?"

He blinked to an awareness of the other prince's gaze, at once haunted and resolute, and the comfort of Gwen's soft strong fingers slipped inside his hand.

"I'm sure," he told Merlin, his throat hoarse from breathing smoke. "I speared one with a broken cart-pole. Went right through him. Could see the jagged end out his back."

Elyan swore, and Gwen's hand tightened. Gaius looked ancient, turning to cast a blind glance over the chamber full of wounded as if calculating the effects of the Knights of Medhir, fighting against them in this battle.

"It slowed him down, trying to pull it out," Arthur continued to Merlin, feeling incapable of suspicion or strategy in the moment, anything that wasn't pure brutal hard work, fighting and fighting and _fighting_ til his kingdom and people were safe. "A missile exploded nearby, then, and the others were buried in burning wreckage."

"Not for long?" Merlin guessed quietly, his eyes burning with reflected and inner light.

The wreckage had been stirring as he turned away. Arthur kind of hated how magic made the impossible come true, a waking nightmare he was helpless to face with sword and skill.

"Not for long," he agreed, moving for the door. Leaving Gwen's hand and comfort, and the old physician to fight another sort of battle there in the hospital.

Merlin kept pace, reaching the great doors that opened onto the courtyard before him, and pushing one open with a palm flattened on the inner panel. Arthur strode through, tossing a suggestion over his shoulder as he faced the black sky and firelit stone walls and cobblestones again.

"Do you want armor?"

Merlin's ring-studded leather breastplate and vambraces were locked in a cupboard in the armory along with his confiscated sword and knives, his saddle and other belongings, but there were additional spare weapons and mail…

"Are you talking to him, or me?" Merlin asked.

Arthur looked back, stumbling a little because he was tired and his feet wouldn't slow, taking him down the chapel stairs, toward the sally-port and the battle for the lower town. Merlin in shirtsleeves, the thin white cheap garment given patient in need – and Elyan in his smith's leathers. Which wasn't armor either, but-

"But only a knight wears mail," Elyan blurted, as surprised as Arthur to find Merlin's question a genuine one.

"That's stupid," Merlin said, without slowing his steps, following Arthur at Elyan's side. "Any man willing to risk his life and fight deserves the consideration. Respect, and protection."

"We don't need to take the time," Elyan said hastily in his quiet, humble way.

Maybe he couldn't see himself donning a knight's armor, no matter how unusual the situation – but Arthur could see it. Maybe he'd taken a blow to the head. And Merlin wasn't slowing or hesitating like he was going to insist on a detour to the armory, either.

"Sire!"

He turned, fifteen paces from the portcullis, to meet Sir Leon, sweaty and grime-covered, moving swiftly but stiffly. The senior knight reversed his steps to join Arthur without causing him to slow.

"There's another one, not thirty paces from the gates, and two more reported close by. If we can't kill Them or stop Them, we're going to have to close and bar the gates against Them and the last wave of refugees that fled into the city as the mercenaries attacked, seeking shelter and places to hide."

"We can't risk letting Them into the citadel," Arthur said grimly. Even if it meant leaving those refugees to their deaths – at the fiery bombardment, or later when the mercenaries got bored with a siege and began ransacking the town.

Behind him, Elyan spat a shockingly foul oath – the words themselves not more surprising than the fact that they came from the mellow, soft-spoken smith. Leon – who knew Elyan from days of shared boyhood – stopped as Arthur did, to look back.

Elyan was slightly crouched, hammer and chisel raised in instinctive defense, focused on Merlin. The prince of Caerleon was down on one knee, fingers splayed to brace himself on the cobblestones around the hilt of the sword he'd appropriated. He lifted his head, obvious strain pinching his expression as he pulled at the silver chain around his neck.

"What is it?" Arthur demanded. "What happened?"

"He just-" Elyan stuttered, and tensed as Merlin pushed himself clumsily to his feet. "The sword, it-"

"Trade me," Merlin proposed, with a grin as shaky as it was brazen.

He came right up to Arthur, stumbling a little himself, reaching for the hilt at Arthur's hip. Bemused, Arthur lifted his arms out of the way and let the younger prince unsheathe his blade; his fingers closed around the weapon Merlin thrust in his hand.

"Yours for mine. There, that'll do."

"Are you mad?" Arthur asked.

"My lord, that sword, it-" Elyan tried to intervene, but Merlin put out his hand without looking, resting it lightly on the smith's shoulder, effectively silencing him.

"This battle tonight. It might be remembered til the end of time, or forgotten at the end of the generation. You might die, I might die, no man can know his own end, or another's. But you must believe you _can_ , or…" He gave Arthur another sort of smile, small and almost sly. "Believe in yourself at least as much as your men do, yeah?"

"You are mad, aren't you," Arthur said. Talk of magic words, Merlin's eyes hadn't so much as sparked gold, but there had been power there to lift his spirits and steady his hope, if not his resolve.

"Sire!" Leon said urgently.

Arthur turned, giving the new sword a turn at his side to balance the weapon and himself. A blue gleam ran down the core of the blade as though it had caught the reflection of starlight for a moment.

The sally-port was still clear, the chaos of the battle centered almost fifty paces down the wall at the cullis-gate.

"They've held him off," Leon said, moving forward a little faster – eager to rejoin his fellow knights. "But he should be just down-"

Arthur glanced down a side street, little more than a lane between a cluster of buildings – and almost missed it for the shadows and lack of firelight, just here. But Merlin gave a short, imperative whistle that confirmed Arthur's first impression. He spun to face the new threat, visually raking the lane for anything they could use – as they'd done for the griffon – to trap and disarm the unkillable knight. Fishing nets, maybe, or blankets?

One step closer, two – Arthur instinctively blocked the monster from his companions with the angle of his body. It seemed to float rather than step over the rubble discarded in the street.

"Trust your sword and your skill – trust yourself!" Merlin rasped behind him.

It was almost on them anyway. Maybe if he allowed it into the center of the four of them, together they could-

The hilt of the broadsword would come as high as Arthur's heart, point down between his boots. It was lifted in the air, rearing back to plunge like a striking snake for the center of his chest. He ducked underneath the blow, knocking the massive blade over his left shoulder with the back of his vambrace, surging upward and forward before his mind could repeat what he already knew – _it can't die_ …

And it died.

He felt the shudders through his blade – the jagged black sword falling and bouncing away, the hooded figure rolling backwards in an attitude of pain with no sound, crumpling to its knees. Arthur retreated, freeing his blade, and it collapsed down into a sigh of dust. And it didn't move again.

Leon swore in disbelief – then again with rising hope.

Elyan said, "That _sword_."

Arthur twisted to face Merlin, who looked overwhelmingly satisfied under his layer of gaunt weariness. "Perhaps if your other weapons contained alloys of copper or bronze – and that one was pure iron, iron is said to be the bane of magic. Or maybe there was an element of silver…"

Elyan blurted a very coarse word indicating his conclusion of Merlin's opinion as pure nonsense. Merlin's smile only sparked to an impish grin. Arthur decided, like a set of manacles linked by a chain that had been removed from a stone wall, he wasn't going to ask and find himself with an answer he'd have to deal with.

"Where's this other one, then?" he said to Leon.

Who actually smiled, himself, before turning back to the main melee with vigor in his steps.

The little courtyard on the town side of the portcullis formed from the intersection of the three widest streets leading more or less from the road beyond, up to the citadel. His knights had the mercenaries bottlenecked at that point – a handful guarding the gate itself, still more catching their breath or assessing an injury – and a flurry of rising and falling and swinging swords at the mouth of each street like a trio of storm-swept forests.

"Tell them to let the knights of Medhir through!" Merlin called to advise him. "Deal with them here, one by one as they come!"

It was a good idea – Arthur could focus on one opponent and not worry about mercenaries suddenly appearing behind him or to either side. Merlin was already peeling away from them, heading to the first knight-blocked street on the left; Arthur met his eyes and nodded. Signaling Elyan to the right and watching Leon jog forward to the center thoroughfare, calling the new orders, Arthur settled himself.

It worked. For whatever reason. The sword wasn't any different from any other in the armory, he knew that as well as Elyan, but the battlefield was – theoretically – a little closer to even, now.

And then the red-cloaked knights at the center road were pulling back, ducking and shifting to let one of those cloaked monstrosities through. It paid little attention, ignoring blows struck in passing, casually performing an occasional heavy strike against one of the defending knights regardless of any attention or logical strategy Arthur could perceive. Leon lost his balance avoiding such a swing of the huge chipped blade, but rolled to his feet immediately.

Arthur strode forward – and honestly, it wasn't even as hard as tournament finals, or the one fight he'd had with King Olaf, tough and canny and furious with Arthur. Distant, unrelated thought – Gwen had kissed him that day - as he slid beneath a disemboweling stroke and flipped to let the weight and momentum of his blade slice into the black knight's flank, all the way to the spine. It expired as its cousin had, a silent death throe sifting to dusty empty cloth.

If he survived tonight, he might kiss her again.

Time passed. There was a push at the right-hand barricade that Arthur joined, noting Elyan's falling hammer and stabbing chisel from the corner of his eye.

Sir Munt passed him to say, "The south quarter is clear." He nodded acknowledgement.

Wounded passed him, going into the citadel. Rested and refreshed knights passed him to rejoin their brethren, holding the three main streets against the mercenaries – two replacing every one that fell, or so it seemed, though none had reached the portcullis entrance.

Merlin came to him with water from the little pump in the wall, sword still in hand. Silent but as intently focused on the battle as Arthur himself. He met Arthur's eyes for a moment and a firm nod.

And then Leon's men were letting another hooded, undying knight through. He was tiring, and caught five blows on his sword, glancing off his plate-mail armor, before he finally found an opening and drove his blade through the magic that animated the ancient knight.

Sir Blaec was at his elbow when he dragged himself upright. "Sire, they've discovered the sally-port!"

Dammit. "Seal the port," he said. "Any more refugees that are found will have to come through here."

"Yes, my lord."

"Pendragon!" someone shouted, one voice out of all others capturing his attention. Glancing about, he glimpsed white-shirted Merlin beckoning.

The younger prince was half-crouched behind the first line of defenders on the barricade, watching down the street. The mercenaries were eight and nine deep here, stumbling and clawing over the bodies of their fellows – some trying to drag themselves away, some limping and pushing through. Others, Arthur glimpsed through smoke and drifting sparks, emerged from doorways with bundles, and furtively skittered back the way they'd come.

Was looting a sign they thought they were losing, or only indicative of individual greed?

"What?" he said, not immediately seeing the point of Merlin's call. He grabbed a crossbow from one of the replacement knights who appeared at his side, stepping up onto a small cask to aim the bolt past the barricade, taking down one of the looting mercenaries just outside a townsman's broken door.

"There." Merlin pointed, hands blackened and smeared. "Second story. In the window."

Arthur squinted. Fluttering cloth – and a hand waving it. He craned to see the base of that building – door still shut, but fire raged in the next one further away.

"Wait a moment, he'll show his face," Merlin continued, low and intent, without looking at Arthur. "Your boys here don't recognize him – think maybe it's a ruse to draw us out."

Arthur barely registered that word. Us.

Turning and ducking behind the cover of the barricade, he sent a shrill whistle and a bellow echoing across the embattled courtyard. " _Elyan_!"

Almost immediately the black-haired leather-clad smith was sprinting across to him, both tools blood-smeared. Leon was just behind him, tossing sweat-soaked hair from his eyes.

"There." Arthur repeated Merlin's message, and Elyan stretched his neck to see for himself. This was his street after all, the forge just out of sight around that corner.

"Yes, I know him," the blacksmith said shortly, meeting Arthur's eyes and shifting his grip on his tool-weapons.

"Arthur," Merlin said.

It caught his attention in a way completely different to the younger prince's shout of his surname. He followed Merlin's gaze to the far end of the street, where a figure in black strode from the corner. Measured steps, cloak billowing in the gusts of fire-heat.

"My lord, the north and east quarters are cleared," someone said in his ear.

He acknowledged the news with a raised hand, also a request to be let speak uninterrupted. "Leon, we've got to charge. Make a hole, hold these men off til we get back."

"Sire," said Leon, with a nod that told Arthur he'd give his life to follow the order.

"Elyan, get the door open and the people out," Arthur said. "I'll deal with Him-" they all knew what that meant by now – "And, Merlin…"

"I'm with you," Merlin said.

Leon roared orders and encouragement, and the knights rose up, scrambling over the barricade in a concerted push that swept the mercenaries sideways. Merlin bent to shove a path through a jumble of broken wooden chairs, tipping a table sideways to help keep their way clear of enemies. Elyan put a shoulder behind the effort; Arthur cut down the one mercenary who turned to strike at them.

And the masked knight was stalking closer.

"Move!" Arthur ordered, following his own command as swiftly as he could.

His lungs burned on hot, ashy air; his skin wept sweat that crystallized to itchy salt in the heat. His legs dragged like wading through knee-deep cinders. He had to trust Leon to keep the mercenaries off his back. Had to trust his people to an untrained blacksmith and a foreign hostage, both of whom belonged safe in the citadel. All of them belonged safe in the citadel, and the need for this defense, the destruction and loss that already surrounded him, infuriated Arthur.

He swung first, with a yell to express his feelings. The knight's jagged broadsword caught his, but he didn't relent, striking again and again with all his strength – actually driving the monster back.

And there – and there – Arthur availed himself of a half-shattered bench, leaping up and to the side, twisting his entire body around to decapitate the masked head. The rest of the garments cloaking the figure drifted down, and Arthur went to his knees as he landed, panting for air.

Through heat-haze and exhaustion, he glimpsed two women and a man slipping from the previously closed door – sliding along the walls of the structures toward the barricade, their movements obviously terrified. Elyan blocked them with his body, moving with them; Merlin emerged from the building behind them.

A rush of movement caught Arthur's attention. Mercenaries retreating from Leon's men at the barricade – who couldn't catch them in time as they bore down on Arthur.

 _Stand_! he commanded his legs – and they betrayed him, trying but too shaky. And dammit to hell, was he going to die on his knees-

A whirlwind of light appeared between them, flashing blade and dingy-cream shirtsleeves. Arthur had the impression that several of the fleeing – attacking? – mercenaries fell back.

But not all.

Merlin fought three at once, both hands on Arthur's sword-hilt – spinning and dipping, slashing and cutting, and avoiding and striking. Arthur wondered numbly if he'd been holding back, that day in the sun on the grass of the training field. Merlin was a demon with a blade – two fell, then three, four…

The red-cloaked knights pursuing from the barricade cut down the rest with a chorus of shouts and a flurry of blows. Merlin watched them a moment, bent and heaving for breath, before turning and offering his hand to Arthur.

And it was possible to rise from his knees.

A quick backward glance showed the street clear – no mercenaries had followed the last knight of Medhir. No, not the last. How many had Arthur killed, out of how many had been stood around the fire-pit in Idirsholas?

"Fall back, sire," Leon said. "Now while we can. That's the north quarter clear."

"Are you sure?" Arthur felt like he was speaking more slowly than he intended.

"Yes, my lord. We can close the gates, and hold the citadel-" Leon interrupted himself, twisting to the side to catch Merlin in a rough embrace as he began to collapse – and released him just as abruptly as the younger prince pushed away.

"I'm fine," Merlin said.

Arthur sent a glance back to the end of the street – no new threats appeared, no frightened townspeople or refugees scurrying for safety – and nodded. "Fall back."

He was aware of the knights forming a protective circle around him, and wanted to apologize for the pace. He wasn't injured in either of his legs, why were they so stiff to bend and unwilling to bear his weight steadily?

Beside him, Merlin staggered up against a post supporting an overhanging second story, his own knees bending too easily. But he immediately warded off Arthur's concern and his touch with an outstretched hand.

"I'm fine," he snapped.

As they moved on, Arthur saw Leon step to the pillar and lay his hand on it as if for momentary support also – but when he lifted his head, he was looking after Merlin.

And Arthur followed the younger man back to the half-demolished barricade. The courtyard was a hellish scene – dark-clad bodies piled, silver-and-scarlet knights limping back toward aid – but men at the other two barricades were looking inward, back to him, sagging into relaxed stances.

"They've retreated!" one called to Arthur; he couldn't identify who, at the distance and in the hazy air. "Shall we pursue, sire?"

"No," he said immediately. Whether or not it was a trick, they were in no shape now to fight a secondary battle through the town. Possibly the loss of the supposedly-invincible Knights of Medhir had demoralized them and they'd have to be regrouped by the king who hadn't led them. Cenred, who'd stayed with the catapults by the tree-line – which hadn't flung any projectiles in quite some time, if Arthur could rely on his own senses. Were they out of clay-and-oil missiles, then?

Was this done for tonight?

"Establish a guard for an hour," he decided, raising his voice so they could all hear him, though he addressed Leon. His voice sounded peculiar in his ears; he rasped and cracked and wavered. "Sleep in shifts and tend your wounds. If there's no sign of the enemy, we'll send patrols to deal with the fires – only, don't engage in any encounter, withdraw. We've won for the night."

He didn't expect a cheer, but it felt like the courtyard released a sigh of relief. And if seemed more than a little symbolic – no matter what tomorrow's dawn might witness – when he slipped the ownerless sword Merlin had given him, into his sheath.

Leon bowed, and turned back to the barricades. Arthur limped for the portcullis, where Elyan stood waiting quietly, the handles of his hammer and chisel protruding from pockets in his leather apron. Merlin, it seemed, hadn't paused to listen to Arthur's orders; he was just shuffling under the raised iron gate to the citadel's courtyard. Elyan spoke to him as he passed, and Merlin lifted his head.

The movement unbalanced him, and he staggered into Elyan so completely and so abruptly that Arthur quickened his pace. He was familiar with the phenomenon of fighters collapsing from an unnoticed wound after the battle was over – but as the smith caught hold of him, Merlin steadied himself again.

Arthur wasn't really reassured.

Elyan looked up at him as Merlin pushed away, wobbling in the direction of the chapel made hospital. Looked down at his still outstretched hands, then back up as Arthur drew even with him.

"He's got blood all down his sleeve," Elyan said.

 _Hells_. "Merlin!" Arthur called, pushing his weary body into a jog.

The other prince didn't slow, didn't show he heard Arthur at all; his sword dragged from Merlin's fingers.

"Here, let me help you," he demanded, arriving at the younger man's side, only to be shrugged away. "Merlin, let me help you!"

"Arthur, please," Merlin said wearily, catching Arthur's wrist as he reached for him. "Please, just… I'm all right. I can walk."

He hummed skepticism and watched the younger man as closely as he was capable of, to the wide shallow steps of the chapel. Blood was dripping from Merlin's knuckles, still wrapped around the hilt of Arthur's sword. He stopped and looked up the stairs to the doors – open on the hurried bustle of the combat still raging within – as though they were an insurmountable obstacle.

"Don't be an idiot," Arthur said abruptly.

He recognized the other crown prince's sentiment, and never realized how it might feel to people who offered, to be unpermitted to help. There was a long tear down the sleeve of the once-white shirt, blood oozing black down his upper arm.

Arthur gripped the thin material and tore it right off, down to the unhemmed edge, and flipped it to roll and thicken the fabric for a bandage. "Your first battle wound?"

Merlin took a deep breath as Arthur tightened and tied the makeshift bandage, and let it out on sound that embarrassed Arthur for being involuntary – a negative answer, and a request for no more jokes, please. Evidently his voice could be just as expressive as his face.

Ducking under Merlin's other arm, he pulled against the younger man's resistance, upward to aid. "You're not alone, all right?" he added in a low voice. "I'm with you."

Merlin didn't respond.

"Oh, Arthur!" Gwen called, her silhouette clear and welcome in the open doorway. "What happened?" She didn't hesitated, rushing down to meet them.

"I think it's over, for tonight," he said.

"And Elyan?" Her hand's and eyes hovered around Merlin's bare and clumsily-bandaged arm, but didn't touch him as they climbed laboriously to the top.

"He's all right. He's with Leon at the barricades."

"Gaius!" Gwen shouted as they reached the door – and murmured something comforting to Merlin, steering him toward three unused feet of pallet in the corner. Arthur released Merlin's arm, balancing him as he sank down in an ungainly, half-conscious heap. "I don't imagine his king will be very happy with us if he doesn't recover completely," she added, skirting a nearby table in pursuit of a basin of steaming water next to a pile of clothes.

Oh. Arthur swayed and caught himself on the stone chapel wall – then let himself slide down to sitting on the floor next to Merlin's jumbled legs. It seemed to him like he'd forgotten Merlin wasn't one of them.

Blood coated his lower arm, his hand and the hilt of Arthur's sword, and his ragged breathing disturbed the chain at the open neck of his absolutely ruined shirt. Maybe Elyan could find some way of breaking that thing – Merlin deserved to be able to defend himself. And Arthur trusted his honor as much as he trusted Leon himself, at that point. The sword he left in Merlin's grip, recognizing that need even when awareness slipped, too.

Arthur's vision blurred, and two tears brushed his cheeks when he blinked. He wouldn't lose control of himself so much as to weep, but – emotion churned in his heart to rest after the hellish night, next to an enemy wounded for defending him. In a roomful of loyal men wounded for defending king and kingdom, citadel and citizens…

But it never felt so personal, before. _They suffered willingly; they did this for_ me _._

He _did this for me_.

 **A/N: The battle described in this chapter does not have much to do with the battle as you see it on-screen for the episode, mainly because it made the most sense to me to write it like this, and not try to contort the story around the glimpses of canon battle scenes… Also, Cenred appears to be using trebuchets, actually, but that's a less-familiar term than catapult, so I chose not to discuss the differences in the flow of prose…**

 **And, I usually like to thank people for being milestone reviewers personally, but this time my 200** **th** **reviewer was an unregistered guest – so thank you, and everyone who has reviewed/favorited/followed this story!**


	14. Status Reports: Enemies and Enchantments

**Chapter 14: Status Report: Enemies and Enchantments**

 _In mid-autumn of Prince Arthur's twenty-first year, a sorcerer was caught trying to sneak into the citadel, disguised as the knight he'd killed for chainmail and scarlet cloak. He and all six of his companions chose death rather than surrender, after a full three hours of the citadel's defenders hunting and chasing them through chambers and corridors in the middle of the night. It was surmised that their destination was the vaults, and their purpose theft._

* * *

"Arthur."

He startled to a thick awareness of aching muscles and the smell of blood and witchhazel. The recollection of the battle, and the too-few hours of sleep stolen inadvertently in a cobwebby corner of the chapel, and the recognition of the elderly physician bending over him, hand extended to grasp his shoulder.

"Gaius? What…" He blinked, trying to convince weary mind and body to rouse.

"It's just dawn, sire. No sign of another attack, but…"

"Yes." Arthur braced himself and groaned his way to his feet, though he didn't yet abandon the support of the wall behind him. Dawn of a new day, and the crown prince couldn't just snore in a corner. "How are – things here?"

One or two female servants still moved between the prone injured. Half as many as he remembered, though, and no one moaning in unrelieved pain. Gaius wasn't rushing or harried either, though a sleepless night aged him ten years.

"Seven more died of their wounds in the night," the old man said, turning to case his gaze over his hospital. "Eleven casualties altogether."

Arthur winced. He'd need to know their names, and determine how best to deal with their families, and whatever arrangements most honored them, eventually. For now…

Gaius continued, "The rest of the wounded should recover in time, and these remaining here can be moved back to their quarters throughout the day. The kitchens are sending bread and broth… Sire, we are fine here and have everything in hand. You should wash and eat and have a change of clothing, though, for everyone's sake."

And if anyone else had said it on any other day, Arthur could pretend to take offense and turn it into a joke. But Gaius was addressing the question of morale – and everyone's spirits would be lifted to see their prince refreshed. No matter how he felt about the indulgence when others were working harder on less.

He nodded acquiescence, dropping his eyes to the nearest figure sprawled at his feet – Merlin, the other prince. Still sleeping… or unconscious. Still wearing the ruined shirt lacking one sleeve, though the bandage from elbow to shoulder showed neat and clean.

"How's this one?" he asked.

"He'll be fine," Gaius said, though he sounded more contemplative than certain, following Arthur's gaze downward. "It was a long gash, not deep, though it bled a lot. He should remain here, though, he probably won't wake for several hours."

"Thanks, Gaius." Arthur watched Merlin breathe for a moment, aware that he had some serious thinking to do, in regards to the sorcerer-prince – but not now. "I'll be back."

Gaius bowed head and shoulders and turned back to his patients. Arthur pushed away from the wall, turned to the door and let himself out.

The tips of the towers were rosy-orange with morning's promise, and though the smell of smoke lingered, the little breezes were subtly clearing it away, and the pennants waved steadfastly. Arthur stepped down to the cobblestones of the courtyard stretching and keeping a yawn between his teeth. A knight rose from the base of the stairs, turning to show the curly hair and broad honest face of Sir Leon.

"Sire," he said, tired but attentive.

"Morning," Arthur said, a greeting and a relief. "What news?"

"The last of the fires was put out an hour ago," Leon said, falling into step as they headed slowly across the open area. "No sign of the mercenaries, so say the watchmen on the walls of the lower town."

Arthur hummed thoughtfully. It didn't make sense that Cenred would pay twenty thousand mercenaries to invade Camelot, to march on a citadel that had never been taken, to fight for one night… and then retreat?

And what was his connection to the Knights of Medhir? Perhaps one of his mercenaries was a sorcerer…

"Send scouts," he said to Leon, pausing at the base of the stair that led most directly to the royal quarters. "I want some warning of what Cenred and his army are going to do today." The people taking refuge in the citadel should remain there at least til noon… could he allow himself to hope, there wouldn't be a second attack?

"Yes, my lord," Leon said, stalwart but worn.

"And, Leon." Arthur turned, his boot on the first stair, to pass on Gaius' advice. "Get some rest. Make sure the men are well-rested, also, in case…"

Leon faintly grimaced toward the portcullis, understanding. "Yes, my lord."

…..*….. …..*….. …...*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana woke slowly, and late, and alone. Which she'd gotten used to in her interior chamber in Cenred's castle - but was unusual for Camelot, and for a moment she blinked at her filmy bed-curtains, bleary-eyed and tight-throated.

No, last night hadn't been a dream. She was curled atop her coverlet still wearing trousers and boots, though she'd undressed to shirtsleeves for comfort before falling asleep.

The pieces of the rowan staff, charred beyond recognition and crumbling, lay in a cold hearth; the chill in the air reached her skin and she shivered. It was so quiet – too quiet.

She'd failed. The prince of Caerleon had broken the power of the staff and returned the bones of the dead warriors to their crypts before collapsing – and not only had she not secured his help, she'd allowed him to stop _her_. Humiliation smoldered toward outrage, but was tempered by uncertainty. Questions circled incessantly through the empty spaces in her mind, and standing made her dizzy for a moment.

Morgause would be angry, probably. How could she know, though – what was she supposed to do?

She crossed to the window and pushed the panes apart. Quiet – and the scent of smoke on the morning breeze. From here she could see two places in the lower town, ashy gray pits in the familiar spread of roofs and streets. Damage – and pointless damage. Their battle was not won the way they'd planned, and the tyrant remained.

Morgana swallowed, lifting her eyes from the town below to the forest beyond. What had happened, after Morgause realized that the citadel was not being attacked from within, that it wasn't going to fall? Cenred's men had retreated from the fight eventually, that much was clear this morning – but how far, and for how long? What was Morgause planning, now? And what was Morgana expected to do?

Well, she couldn't simply wait for someone to come and tell her.

Morgana shook herself, went to her wardrobe, and chose her white gown, silk and lace. If Gwen had forgotten or abandoned her in the aftermath of the battle, she'd have to seek her own breakfast, at least, and news of what had happened after she'd fled the crypts for the refuge of her chamber.

For a moment in the open doorway, leaving this once-and-again sanctuary, she recalled – vividly and involuntarily – the moment of Prince Merlin's magic. The commanding spell, and the fall into a motionless pile of limbs, as all around the bones flowed back to their places, and the rends in solid stone melted back together. If she had to wait to discover Morgause's answer to _what next?_ she had other questions for the prince of Caerleon. She found she hoped, after all, that she hadn't lost her chance to ask him _why_.

At the bottom of the short stair that descended from her chamber door, she chose to step away to the corridor that led to the royal quarters rather than proceeding down the main staircase. Out of curiosity, she told herself, to discover also how the king and prince might have fared through the night.

In an otherwise unoccupied hallway, Arthur stood just outside his chamber door, dressed ordinarily in unobtrusive brown – trousers and shirt with a soft-leather vest left hanging open. He appeared uninjured, and Morgana's heart cramped painfully with both relief and regret – maybe he was unharmed, but then they hadn't successfully forced the Pendragons to change their brutally unjust laws.

If they had succeeded, it occurred to her, it might be Arthur chained to the wall behind the locked door of that little cell.

But he wasn't standing alone. Gwen leaned very close to him; she looked like she hadn't changed or slept since yesterday. Neither of them spoke, as Morgana watched, but Arthur raised his right hand – bandaged beneath the cuff of his shirtsleeve, so he hadn't escaped the battle completely unscathed – and cupped the maid's cheek in a very tender, intimate gesture.

Gwen closed her eyes briefly, nestling into his palm and wrapping both hands around his wrist and elbow, very nearly hugging his forearm.

Probably inappropriate. This wasn't Caerleon, and though Morgana believed Arthur, like Merlin, didn't dabble… For a moment Morgana found it difficult to breathe, watching her two friends in such an unguarded and obvious exchange of comfort and endurance and the feeling it gave her shocked her with its intensity and label.

Loneliness.

She ached for someone to touch her so tenderly, to provide a safe haven simply with his proximity. To have no need for caution and forget any role or purpose beyond simple existence from one moment to the next. She envied them; she was alone. Because of her magic, when she was with Arthur or Gwen, she was still alone. Even when she was with Morgause, though, she was alone. No one knew and accepted _all_ of her, each and every part.

Gwen opened her eyes and stepped back, smiling up at Arthur as he dropped his hand. She didn't notice Morgana, but turned and headed the opposite direction down the hall.

He watched her go.

 _I love her_ , Merlin had said of his flour-faced maid. Did Arthur feel the same? For all his publicly stupid affairs with Ladies Sophia and Vivian, had Arthur truly fallen in love this year?

She wasn't at all sure how she felt about the prospect of her maid on the kingdom's throne as queen. Outranking her, making decisions that affected everyone. Uther would never allow it… but they were trying to overthrow Uther, weren't they. Arthur had to know Uther wouldn't approve. Was he prepared to defy his father over that tradition? Maybe, and selfishly.

It didn't mean she could walk up to him and say, _I have magic_ , and expect his touch of her cheek to promise his protection and love.

Then Arthur turned on the heel of his boot and strode toward her. Morgana found her spine straightening and her expression shifting to meet his gaze as he noticed her for the first time. And he didn't startle or flush or hesitate – there was no guilt or embarrassment to think she might have seen the private moment with her maid. Like he trusted her – and she felt the sinking feeling of failure all over again.

Worse was the nasty lurch of betrayal in the pit of her stomach. Not that had been done to her, like she fully expected them all to do, if her magic were to be discovered… but that _she_ was the betrayer.

"Morgana," he called before he reached her. "I'm glad to see you're all right."

"Yes, I… was in my chamber," she excused herself, suddenly hating the silk and lace and wishing for serviceable wool to wear. Because before, she'd have been with Gwen in the infirmary, working to care for injured fighters. But that would have been the height of hypocrisy, last night, and she hadn't been able to face that. And now it had all been for nothing – Camelot's regime and laws remained unchanged.

"It's all right," Arthur said immediately. "No one expected you there, not after… this last year."

The discomfort of deception squirmed beneath her skin – and that was only meant to be short-lived. Lie to them and pretend, just long enough to wrest control from the murderous tyrant who'd raised her. Now, what?

"Well, I thought…" Her fingers twisted together in an unsatisfactory attempt at self-justification. "I could help, this morning?"

"If the hospital bothers you, try the kitchen," Arthur said, his dispensation of courteous preliminary protests an indication of the truth of the situation. "We've got thousands of refugees to feed. And of course you'll have to give up Gwen for today at least, if not longer… Or, Morgana, my father."

"What?" she said, disconcerted at the light that came up in his eyes.

"He didn't come out of his rooms all night," Arthur said, showing a single spark of enthusiasm at his idea. "But Gaius is so busy, and if Father still won't trust his manservant to enter – you could try to see to him, this morning?"

He was already moving past her, anticipating her agreement. Trusting her.

"I will look in on him," she heard herself say, and the look of relief that swept over Arthur's face made her feel slightly ill.

Slightly angry. At Merlin. Because if this battle had gone according to plan, she could be explaining herself right now instead of perpetuating prevarication like she was ashamed of being wrong. Which she wasn't.

"What of the prisoner?" She spoke after Arthur; he slowed to look back at her without stopping, frowning with mild confusion like he wasn't sure who she was talking about. She added, "Prince Merlin?"

"He's with Gaius," Arthur explained succinctly, as if unaware that he was saying anything extraordinary. "He was wounded last night. Saving my life."

"What?" she said, incredulous. _After_ he'd ruined the spell in the crypts, and passed out – evidently, not dead – restoring the bones and their resting places.

"It's a very long story, and one I don't fully understand myself," Arthur said, still moving away. "Cenred's army has withdrawn, but they may return, and so…" He excused himself with a shrug and a grimace.

Withdrawn. Return? Questions that left her feeling hollow and anxious – and disconcerted, as her reasons for those feelings were the opposite of everyone else's… A headache was developing, and Morgana decided to avoid the kitchens – crowded and busy – in favor of investigating Uther's chamber.

She hadn't been there in several days, since placing the mandrake root Morgause had given her. The curtains were drawn over the windows, and the stillness of the room was the stale death of air, the smell of the crypts. Someone had entered at some point, though, for a small fire still flickered in a nest of ashes in the hearth.

Morgana moved quietly to the king's bedside. He was curled in a halfway sitting position against the headboard, the coverlet tented over his body and clutched beneath his nose with both hands. His eyes were open, but unfocused.

"My lord?" Morgana tried uncertainly. He didn't even twitch at the sound of her voice.

The odor of sweat and fear was stronger here, and it turned her stomach with a peculiar form of unhappiness and regret. Where was the resolve and hopeful anticipation, the eager fire she'd felt in quitting Cenred's castle to help initiate this campaign? How could she regain that sense of purpose?

Uther trembled with long and unrelenting strain, and whimpered in the back of his throat like a mindless wounded animal. She wished that he could have died fast and clean in the battle, somehow. But without the rowan staff to raise an army inside the citadel's defenses, Cenred could fight long and hard and never win – and she didn't want weeks of siege-suffering, so much death as pointless as Uther's Purge.

Knowing where to reach, she bent and grabbed for the root fastened beneath the edge of the bed. The potion had dripped onto the floor, but the spill have obviously been overlooked by Arthur, who probably couldn't look away from his father at this proximity, and Gaius, who probably couldn't bend so low to see – or any servant, untrusted and therefore unpermitted. It was sticky-dry and unpleasant to touch, and when she straightened with it in her hand, her heart nearly stopped.

Uther's eyes went terrified-wide, locked on the root in her hand, and he inhaled a gasp. For a moment she froze, sure she'd been caught by the murderously vengeful tyrant – but he seemed frozen as well, not even releasing his breath. Broken and weakened invalid.

Tentatively she shifted, but his eyes didn't follow her, and she no longer wanted to know what he saw.

She hurried to toss the gruesome root into the fireplace. _Remove the cursed object and burn it._ Destroy the evidence. She had some vague idea of sneaking out to meet Morgause in the woods tonight for further instructions, though she didn't know if her sister would even be there. Could the situation be salvaged at all – and how? Not if she was caught, and if she was suspected, she'd have to flee Camelot for refuge with Morgause once again.

Morgana was unprepared for the unearthly shriek the root made, hitting the blaze and igniting. Just like it had done, being sucked beneath the surface of the cauldron's contents – but this time the king in his bed flinched visibly and moaned.

Whether he heard it or not, or whether he was caught in some vision from the past, she didn't know. But she only paused briefly at the foot of the bed – what else could she do, here? he was still staring terror-stricken into space – before sweeping out of the chamber.

It was out of her hands, now.

She studied them as she stalked down the corridor, down the stairs – no residue that she could see, but… there was one more thing she had to do before she could rest assured that no suspicion would fall on her. She needed a moment of privacy, though – so for now, she could find something to eat, and perhaps help in the kitchens an obligatory hour or so.

And after… she'd try to sleep again, and tonight she could make a way to seek instructions or guidance from her sister.

For now, she had to make sure Prince Merlin never breathed a word of what happened in the crypts.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin struggled against weariness to wake. His body was heavy and aching and too warm; his magic rebelled against the restraints he'd forgotten in sleep's oblivion, and the sounds of distress from the wounded in the hospital mingled with nightmares of Evorwick and Stonedown.

He was responsible for something – or someone – and it wasn't being done, or saved, or helped…

Fire rippled through him, receding and leaving his heart pounding and his lungs gasping – and he blinked up at an unfamiliar vaulted stone ceiling, with the dusty glow of midmorning and a faint smell of soap and blood. He was lying on a pallet on the floor – and above him, one hip hitched over a corner of a bare table to swing his leg-

sword blade sharp and negligent across his palms in his lap-

Prince Arthur.

Merlin inhaled in instinctive alarm and made it to his elbows before one buckled and he had to roll to avoid flopping down on his back. Was there any part of him not bruised or sore?

"Take it slow," Arthur said mildly. "Gaius said you lost a lot of blood, you'll be weak and sore. And it'll probably scar."

"Oh, good," Merlin said, still feeling a bit groggy. "At least I won't go home with nothing to show for this."

Arthur's face – tired and worn, as Merlin calmed enough to study the other prince more closely – twitched like he wanted to smile.

"You're all right?" Merlin added, scooting to lean his back into the corner of the room.

Arthur glanced down at the bandage that circled his wrist and the base of his thumb below his cuff, scoffing almost absently to dismiss the injury. "No sign of the army, or the rest of those Knights. Still waiting on the scouts to say what Cenred is doing…" He dropped his eyes to the sword in his hands, turning it over contemplatively, and Merlin felt his muscles drawing tense with anticipation, preparation, defense – and then Arthur looked at him without lifting his head. "If they attack again today, or tonight – will this sword perform effectively again?"

Merlin took a deep breath and let it out, considering deflecting the question lightheartedly – and then didn't. "I wouldn't bet on it," he said quietly. "That enchantment isn't meant to last – it doesn't bond with the metal, it only lies atop it…"

Arthur made a thoughtful noise and shifted, suddenly and smoothly, and without warning the point of the sword Merlin had appropriated and enchanted was just under his chin.

He didn't move. And Arthur's expression didn't change. "So. That chain around your neck. It doesn't work at all."

"It does," Merlin responded – again with serious honesty. There was some odd balance vibrating in the air between them, charged with intensity, and he had no wish to upset that. The son of magic-hating Uther Pendragon had used it – had probably known he was using it at the time – and now was questioning him, ready to _believe_ what he said. "It makes the use of my magic both difficult and unpleasant." Having used and used around the painful restraints, last night, his very spirit felt bruised and lamed.

"It's meant to block you entirely," Arthur commented. The point of the sword remained where it was; his expression placid curiosity with a hint of steel-blue in his eyes.

"I'm stubborn," Merlin offered as an excuse.

"I suppose I should be grateful." Arthur set his jaw in a way that spoke of resentment; Merlin didn't figure he would enjoy being beholden for his home's defense to a stranger and a hostage, under similar circumstances – and Arthur didn't know the half of it. "But now – how do I trust you?"

Merlin rolled his eyes, daring to reach up and guide the sword-tip down and away. "You should be grateful – though I didn't exactly do this, for you. The sorcery that keeps those Knights animated is dark magic. Forbidden. Therefore I oppose it on moral grounds, no matter who's using it, or against whom."

"But all magic is evil," Arthur said – like he was presenting an argument he no longer wholly believed.

"You are repeating an uneducated opinion that's been taught to you as fact," Merlin countered.

Golden brows drew together. "I have seen plenty of magic that is destructive and vindictive," he said. "That's the education of experience."

"One-sided," Merlin said. "Because you're not allowed to see the good and the light – people aren't allowed to practice that, so they don't. And you have people corrupted with grief and hate attacking you with magic, which is different than people attacking with corrupted magic."

Arthur shook his head. "I don't see the difference."

"Well," Merlin said good-humoredly, "I'm not going anywhere. I'll gladly continue the debate at your leisure."

"Hm." Arthur's mouth relaxed to an almost-smile, and he straightened to slide the now-ordinary sword into the sheath at his hip. "Until such time, I'm not having you returned to your cell. Because of your injury and because I cannot discharge the debt that I owe you – that Camelot owes you – with your freedom, I'm having you assigned to custody. Myself, primarily, or someone I trust when it's inconvenient for me."

"Oh," Merlin said, surprised and pleased. Good, that was a much more interesting prospect than the cell.

"Therefore I'm leaving you with Gaius right now." Arthur turned to look over his shoulder. "You can help him here as much as you're able, and return with him to his chambers. And if Cenred's mercenaries attack again…"

"I'll be with you," Merlin finished for him.

Arthur nodded like he'd answered a question. Pushing off from the table, he reached down to pull Merlin to his feet – much like he'd done last night, there at the end of the battle – then kept Merlin's hand in a firm grip.

"Thank you," he said. Meaning any number of things, maybe, but when Merlin spoke, he meant what he said, also.

"Any time."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana entered Gaius' chambers shortly after noon, tired from trying – and probably not entirely succeeding – to help with the harried preparations for extra mouths. She'd heard that the physician could be found in his own chamber, refortifying himself in one capacity or another, since the wounded had all been returned to the more comfortable private quarters of the barracks.

Except for the prince of Caerleon. She'd heard rumors about that decision also, varying levels of suspicion about the truth and occasion of the sorcerer's injury, and how he was now at least as free to walk about the citadel as their own prince.

They'd have been happier with the obvious and visible manacles shackling the magic-user. Morgana wondered if she was alone in her knowledge that they'd do no good.

She'd prepared – in addition to nearly twenty loaves of bread - excuses within reasons to defend and explain if anyone came to her saying, _Prince Merlin says you were down in the crypts last night…_ but no one came to accuse her. Maybe because he was genuinely too badly injured to tell what he knew. But she had to be sure.

Morgana pushed the door latched behind her, taking stock of the physician's chamber. Gaius snored in his chair behind the desk, head pillowed on his arms atop the open pages of a large book. Across the room and just slightly further away, the object of her search lay sprawled on the patient-bed. Messy black hair and long bare arms – the bandage around one blending into the pale tone of his skin – and gray blanket in unsettled disarray.

His lack of reaction assured her he was asleep or unconscious, and she glided into the room, stepping slowly and placing her feet carefully to reach the stool at his bedside without disturbing him or Gaius.

She settled onto the stool, studying him for a moment. He looking younger, lying down and with his eyes shut, black curls tangled on his forehead, and she could not find even a faint echo of the feelings that had so confused her. Visually she followed the sweeping lines of bone and muscle beneath the skin of shoulders and arms; he didn't look like he'd feel as rough and callused as the palms of his hands, the way she vaguely believed men were, and the few curly black hairs in the center of his chest were a distant interest.

His lips, though, were slightly parted, and the thought burst into her mind like a bubble, she could test her inexplicable earlier attraction by laying her mouth on his right now, and seeing what happened.

Before she could decide, one way or another, he closed his mouth to swallow – then opened it to inhale. His brows twitched together, then he turned his head away from her on the pillow, stretching his throat upwards from the silver chain glittering on his skin and emphasizing the knob in the middle – that bobbed as he swallowed again and turned back to her. Eyelids lifted to show a hint of blue, but not fully, though he focused on her.

She stiffened, readying herself for hissed accusations and recriminations – and was stunned to see his lips curve in a lazy, pleased smile that sent a shocking rush of warmth through her. Then he said one word in a husky voice that made her heart skip and stutter.

" _Freya_."

He'd mistaken her for his little maid in Caerleon. Morgana attempted to shrug out her reactive tension, folding her hands over her knees.

"No, Your Highness," she said coldly. "You're in Camelot."

He blinked, and latent contentment drained from him as clarity returned. But he didn't react defensively to find her sitting at his side as he slept, half-naked and vulnerable. He only uttered, mildly polite and maybe hiding disappointment, "Lady Morgana."

She couldn't help it. Leaning toward him – and keeping her voice low so she wouldn't wake Gaius – she burst out, "Why did you do that, last night? Now Uther is still king and our kind will continue to burn for his hatred."

He hummed, tightening muscles to pull himself upright, and swung his legs over the side of the little cot. She was relieved to see the cuffs of trousers over his bony ankles, but he let the blanket pool at his waist with a lack of concern over his bare chest that disconcerted her.

And _now_ she felt the draw of masculinity, when he was upright and in control of himself, and looking her right in the eye from arms'-length distance.

"I'm not sorry I stopped you." He turned from her to rummage under the blanket, and withdrew his indigo shirt, still folded. "If there's anything worse than someone using dark magic-" His voice was muffled inside the cloth, and she could tell he was having trouble with it, wincing and making little noises of pained inhalation, but she made no move to help position his shirt like she might have done with Arthur, or any other of Gaius' patients. Partly because she wanted to, wanted to touch him and brush his skin with her fingers to see how smooth he might be… "It's someone using dark magic carelessly or unwittingly."

She was glad to have anger rise to burn away those unwanted thoughts and urges. "I don't care what you were taught," she said stiffly, "there's no such thing as dark magic. Only-"

"Only powerful magic, and those too fearful or weak to wield it – yes, I know. You said. But disbelieving something doesn't negate its existence, it makes you unprepared to face it."

"I did not come here to argue with you," she said crossly, glancing over his shoulder to see that Gaius still slumped asleep over the book on his desk. "I came to tell you that if you try to persuade anyone that I had anything to do with the battle, or the king's illness, you won't be believed. I've burned the rowan staff that you broke last night, and the mandrake root from Uther's bedroom."

"Good," he said immediately. "Well done."

She blinked at him, off-balance, and a moment later he frowned back.

"Wait, mandrake root?"

"Yes." That knot between her shoulder-blades tightened. "But it's gone now, so you needn't think-"

He leaned over his knees, propping his elbow on one and burying his eyes in the palm of his hand with a groan. "A mandrake. Hells, Morgana."

"I suppose that's black magic, too," she said icily.

He tipped his head without lifting it to look at her with one eye. "Did you mix the potion? Or cast the spell? Or did your sister do that herself?"

She bristled. "I carried the root and placed it in Uther's bedchamber and I was glad to do it. If anyone deserves to relive their crimes, it's _him_."

He tipped his head a bit more, looking at her almost sideways. "Is that what you were told it would do?"

She began, "I do not appreciate your insinuation that my sister would lie to me-"

"No, of course not," he said, cutting off her protest. "Only maybe she didn't tell you everything. Or maybe she didn't know or completely understand what she was doing."

"Oh, and I suppose you do?" she challenged him; not one of the knights of Camelot had ever spoken to her this way, interrupting without thinking twice. She was irritated; she would not be intrigued.

"Some say that there are spirits in every living thing," Merlin said. "That's not the right word, it's… _liffaest_. Energy, vitality, life – but not sentience, exactly. You see, even with stones, different ones have different properties. Characteristics, reactions, uses, and so on. There are wild animals and tamed ones, and each has its instincts and uses, do you follow?"

"I am not a child," she said loftily – but she had no urge to storm out, either. Morgause so rarely explained – maybe this druid-taught sorcerer was completely mistaken… but she couldn't deny that he was interesting. And at least she'd have something to bring to Morguase to refute.

Prince Merlin didn't take offense, only grinned. "Plants and trees are the same way. Some useful for food, for medicine, some poisonous. Likewise, some have magical properties as well. Some trees are guardians, some are indifferent – like oak or pine, that kill off anything that tries to grow beneath them. Some roots love to be pulled and used, and molder if they're not. Vegetables, for instance."

"Vegetables?" she repeated sarcastically. "Now you're giving me a lecture on gardening?"

"Rowan," he said. "Sticks and twigs and branches, even, can be used for divination, for charms of protection – the bark and berries can be used for several medicinal purposes. If they're planted near faerie stone-circles they can be especially powerful; the strength of any given tree depends on where and why it was planted."

Morgana heard an echo of her sister's voice – _At the very heart of the Isle of the Blessed…_

"Taking your heartwood staff," Merlin told her, eyes dark and serious in a way that made her swallow and cringe a bit, " _killed_ that tree. Like the bones of your faithful defenders, dark magic twists the intention of the living thing and forces it to behave in an opposite manner. The protector becomes a destroyer. Much like forcing a child to hurt a playmate."

She drew back from him, crossing her arms over her chest. There was revulsion on her face to consider the comparison, she could feel it.

"As for the mandrake, it does not want to be unearthed. It protests with a cry that is audible to those who can touch the magic of the earth – it wants to share its pain and punish whoever is responsible. With the correct potion-enchantment, it doesn't just show a person's memories, or even specific ones – there are other spells and charms for that. The mandrake takes your worst nightmares – failures, losses, guilt – and _twists_ them into something even darker. Not truth, anymore, just torture. Meant to break, and break, and then grind up the pieces of a person's mind until there's nothing left. Sometimes that results in death, sometimes in the body living on as an empty vessel waiting to be filled by whoever or whatever gets to it first, but…"

He took a deep breath and let it out, shifting his position on the cot.

"You were taken in and raised, as I was, by your king," he said softly. "Don't you owe him some gratitude for that? Don't you owe it to yourself to-"

"Perhaps I should turn my gifts on others like me," she said, sickened and upset by even the possibility that what he said contained any truth. "Out of _obedience_ and _gratitude_. I should find them and earn their trust and turn them in – and hide and suppress and deny my power, never using it for _anything_. To show that I'm _thankful_ and _pleased_ with my new silk gowns and fine jewelry."

"No, that's not what I meant," he tried to protest.

"Maybe I should ride across the border and kill innocent townspeople just so I can steal their chickens and grain," she added maliciously.

He flinched, and she was pleased to see it. "You're not listening to me-"

"Maybe not, but you listen to me." She stood from the stool, taking comfort and courage from the new difference in their height. "If you breathe a word about that staff, or the root, we will make sure you regret it til your dying day. We offered you help, we offered you to join us. If you really want to be our enemy, so be it." She turned with a flounce to leave, but wasn't unaware of him scrambling up behind her.

"Morgana…"

She turned her head just enough to see him clearly from the corner of her eye. He wasn't exactly sun-bronzed anyway, but he went sheet-white and his eyes glazed. He pitched over, onto the floor between the cot and the stool, with enough of a clatter to rouse Gaius.

"Merlin! What's going-" Bemusedly, the physician's gaze caught on Morgana instead; she shifted her posture to make it seem like she was entering, rather than leaving. "My lady?"

"Sorry." Merlin's voice was breathless, and the cot tipped and thumped as he attempted to use it to balance in rising to his feet. The stool skidded further away before he made it. "Sorry. I just stood up too fast."

"I warned you," the old man reminded him sternly – before turning his attention back to Morgana. "Can I help you with something, my lady?"

Only now did she realize, she'd threatened Merlin about telling anyone what she'd done, but she hadn't asked if he already had. "No, I was just… checking you were all right. If you needed anything, after the…"

Merlin swayed on his feet, and just that quickly Gaius' attention was completely diverted; Morgana was annoyed.

"Sit down, boy, before you fall again. And tear all your stitches open, and crack that thick skull of yours, likely as not."

Merlin grimaced into the air between them, but shuffled forward to the workbench, instead of dropping back down onto the patient bed.

"But I guess you're both fine," she concluded sardonically, whirling once again to leave.

"My lady, are _you_ all right after last night's battle?" the physician called, halting her in her steps just short of the door.

She made a grimace herself, since they couldn't see her. What if Merlin had told the shrewd old man? Schooling her features, she turned, showing them a look of wide-eyed innocence. "I was fine," she said. "I'm only sorry I wasn't able to participate in the efforts the way I wanted to."

Merlin scoffed, turning his head away, but Gaius' expression remained neutral. "I expect we could all truthfully say as much."

In that moment, the door's latch was lifted, and Morgana had to take a half-step back as the bound oak planks were pushed open to reveal – Arthur. Blue eyes alight and breath quickened from hurry – she remembered that he would think she wanted to champion this prince as she had done the druid boy Mordred; she'd have to figure out how to play that – but he blinked past surprise to see her, to the excitement and news that had brought him.

"I've just heard from the scouts," he said abruptly. "Cenred has pulled his army past the river. That means he can't attack tonight, and they say it looks like he's heading for the border. Genuine and permanent retreat."

"Unless it's a ruse," Merlin said softly. He was slouched back, weight supported on his good arm, his body cradling the bandaged limb.

Morgana could feel his eyes on her, and struggled to show none of the disappointment or loss or confusion she felt. She didn't look back at him.

"That's wonderful news, Arthur," she said. "I'm going to find Gwen – there will be lots to do to resettle the townspeople and of course the refugees will want to return to their homes once they're allowed…"

And in all that activity, she was sure she could sneak out to meet her sister. The question was, if Cenred had given up, would her sister still be waiting to meet with her?

* * *

 _In the third month of autumn in Prince Arthur's twenty-first year, a shepherd came to Camelot to report signs of life from a heretofore deserted castle. Arthur took a troop of men to investigate and found Idirsholas unoccupied – the legendary and statue-like Knights of Medhir vanished. One day later, the Lady Morgana also vanished without a trace, from her bedchamber in the well-defended citadel. The alarm was raised and the search begun, and her friends traded many ideas of how, and who, and why. Perhaps the physician might have guessed that the lady had planned and accomplished her mysterious departure herself, to join her one remaining relative. Morgause, who had once lost a duel to Prince Arthur, and who might have ineffectually tried to persuade her younger sister to assist her in defeating the Pendragons. And who might have then settled for grooming the ward of Camelot to more willingly aid her future endeavors._

 _In the aftermath of the Lady's disappearance, while the knights of Camelot were widely patrolling the countryside and the citadel was guarded by a bare few, a lone man managed what the sorcerer Alvarr had failed at, barely one month earlier. This man made his way into Camelot, into the caverns beneath the citadel, beneath the vaults, secure as always against theft. And stole what was perhaps the most important treasure of Uther Pendragon's collection – the Great Dragon himself. It was unmistakable; everyone saw the departure of the two – dragon and dragonlord, since only such a one would have been able to defeat the great chain forged to keep the creature captive. The patrols that had been sent out to search for Camelot's missing Lady reported that they'd seen the dragon, always airborne, heading resolutely for the high northern mountains._

 **A/N: Sorry this is late! RL in several different instances!**


	15. Surprise Visit

**A/N: I think I've written twice before, Longest Chapter Ever. But** _ **this**_ **one… They're getting longer and later, and I feel like I want to apologize and make them shorter and sooner, but… I guess we'll see.**

 **Chapter 15: Surprise Visit**

Morgana was well able to sneak out of Camelot by moonlight that night, covered and disguised in a dark cloak. There were still people about, this long after sunset and moonrise; there was too much to be done, cleaning up after the battle and beginning repairs, but they were all blind to any need or errand save their own, by exhaustion.

She was nearly at the clearing where she'd met her sister before, when she stumbled to a halt, heart choking her in her throat. Her path was blocked by a tall knight, shrouded head to toe in black, eerily unmoving. She froze, trying to breathe, breathing too fast and too loud in the otherwise noiseless forest.

It didn't move. Didn't react to her whatsoever.

Was she supposed to address the knight aloud? Uneasily she sidestepped; twice, and it made no move. It let her sidle past in the underbrush and around to the clearing and she hated how uncanny they were and how cold-scared they made her feel. But the clearing appeared deserted.

"Sister?" Morgana called, eyeing the ridge where she'd seen Morgause arrive on horseback, last time.

Instead, there was a ripple in the middle of the clearing, and Morgause appeared, crouched but moving upright, seeming to push the air itself aside. She was still dressed – trousers and boots and armor, the sides of her curly blonde hair pinned behind her head. Straightening, she surveyed Morgana – who felt again overdressed in her gown and cloak.

Also, very young and foolish. Only her father had ever been able to make her feel like that. And, maybe, Prince Merlin.

Shaking off the thought, she crossed to her sister's side.

"Morgana," Morgause said, her voice and word a challenge, a rejection of the bond she recalled each time she used the term of their relationship instead of a proper name, the term she alone in the world could use. But, she then reached behind Morgana's shoulders and gripped her in an unyielding hug. "I wasn't sure you survived," she continued, and it sounded like a rebuke. "I sensed the staff break. What happened? It was working, I could feel as much."

Morgana was momentarily diverted. "You could feel the staff?" she questioned. Merlin had said the same – _the pain, doesn't that make you feel sick and cold_ … "I felt nothing."

"Of course not." Morgause dropped her hands to Morgana's wrists, and clasped her fingers around the enchanted cuff she'd gifted her quite a while ago already. To block the pain and terror and confusion of her dreams, she said. Because she was concerned about Morgana's health, she said. "It would have been an unnecessary distraction."

Or was it because she would have hesitated, to hear what Merlin said he heard? _That is_ not _trying to keep you safe_ , he'd criticized.

"What did it sound like? Or feel like?" she asked.

"Unimportant." Morgause dismissed the question in a way that was familiar to Morgana by now. "What happened? You were caught?"

"Not exactly." Morgana tossed her head. "Perhaps if you told me that those with magic would sense the staff, I would have been more prepared when Prince Merlin of Caerleon confronted me in the crypt. And perhaps if you taught me defensive magic, I would not have had to resort to swordplay – he was clearly able to hold his own, and even used his blade to break the staff as I fought him."

Morgause ignored Morgana's complaint, focusing intently on the mention of the sorcerer-prince. "Merlin, you said? I thought he was locked in the cells, wearing the _Endel-Easness_."

"He was. I don't know how he got out, but he was still wearing a fine chain around his neck, whether it was the Endel-Easness or not."

"I doubt Uther Pendragon would make such a mistake," Morgause said, almost to herself. She sounded almost – eager. "So. Does the sorcerer have magic strong enough to overcome that block? Interesting. But why did he break the staff – I thought we had determined you should… _persuade_ him to an alliance."

"He said the staff and the mandrake were black magic, and dangerous to anyone exposed to it," Morgana said, her pulse quickening to finally pose this question to her admired sister. "Was he right?"

"Has _he_ persuaded _you_?" Morgause demanded, stepping close enough for Morgana to see almost-literal sparks in her dark eyes.

"No, of course not," Morgana returned, cross that her sister should consider her so weak-willed.

"Good. Then you still have a chance to attach him to you and influence him, like we discussed. As you assured me was within your power."

Morgana felt guilty and sulky, and wanted nothing to do with either feeling. "I'm not going to try again," she declared, lifting hands to her hips – briefly, as Morgause's eyes narrowed – before clasping them in front of her waist. "He's thoroughly besotted with the lover he left in Caerleon. I'm wasting time trying to turn his attention to me, and I've decided I don't want the burden of looking after a royal lapdog, after all."

And she didn't say, Merlin had guessed at the fact of her sister's leadership, nor that she had confirmed his guess. Nor that the prince's lover was some insipid maid.

"Anyway, what of Cenred?" Morgana added. "We don't need a prince who's currently a hostage and alone, we have a king and an army. Don't we? Arthur's scouts said that they moved across the river."

"Cenred is a skunk and a coward," Morgause stated, eyes flashing. "We don't need him. We don't need an army after all, not with you inside Camelot. And, if you can persuade Caerleon to alliance – fine, not with seduction if you can't manage it properly. Talk him round to a political understanding."

"So Cenred really is giving up, and returning to his castle?" Morgana said, surprised.

Her sister shrugged. "He made promises to his men based on your performance. You did not fulfill your part of the plan, so he decided not to fulfill his, either."

"I'm sorry," Morgana said, feeling inadequate, and heard Merlin's voice in her head again.

 _I'm not sorry I stopped you…_

"It is of little concern," Morgause said dismissively. "Tell me – how fares Uther?"

It made Morgana uneasy to hear her sister belittle an ally she'd made so much of and given so much of herself to, for a year and more. Did loyalty depend upon delivery? She didn't like to think so; she was sure Arthur didn't think so.

"Confined to his bedchamber for the past two days," she answered. Neglecting, again, to say that she'd burned the root herself – to destroy evidence, obviously, a self-defensive measure, but would Morgause see it that way? "Refusing entrance to all but his physician and his son."

"So they may have discovered the root," Morgause guessed. Morgana shrugged, dropping her eyes to shake an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. "Never mind. Recovery can be arduous and incomplete-"

Morgana stopped listening, upset again by the idea that Morgause was obviously familiar with the enchantment she'd used – even though Merlin had sounded inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. And, that her sister had never actually answered her question, _was he right?_

"I'll think of something," Morgause concluded. "You can still come here at night, to keep me apprised of events in Camelot."

It didn't sound like a question. But Morgana already knew that her sister would not give up so easily as her wayward king – well, neither would she. "Of course."

"And Arthur? What of the prince?"

"A minor injury," Morgana told her. "Evidently the prince of Caerleon was allowed to keep the sword he carried, and saved Arthur's life in the battle."

"Why would he do that?" Morgause blazed with intensity.

Morgana fell back half a step without realizing it. "I'm not sure. I'll try to find out?"

"Good."

She ventured the thought that occurred to her. "Perhaps, if he and Arthur have formed some bond, some understanding, Arthur might not view all magic with the same absolute hatred that Uther does."

Morgause made a contemptuous noise. "Like father, like son," she said, and ignored Morgana's attempt at feeble protest. "Wait for my instructions to make any move that might be questioned, even if you think no one will discover you," Morgause ordered.

Giving up, Morgana nodded.

"And stay out of the Forest of Essetir," Morgause added, a surprising command.

"What?" Morgana said blankly. "Why?"

"You know the Questing Beast still roams that wood?"

Morgana remembered. The nightmare she'd had – though the images were hazy, now, two and a half years later – and that more than a dozen people had died trying to kill or capture the beast. But no one had seen it since – and no one went to the Forest of Essetir anyway because of the serkets – and no one called it one of Uther's few failures. No one even thought of it as Arthur's failure.

She wondered briefly what Prince Merlin would make of such a beast.

"It killed a hunting party, every man save Arthur," she said aloud. "The forest is forbidden on royal order – why do you think I would go there?"

"Nimueh is there," Morgause pronounced, lifting her chin as fire flashed in her eyes.

Morgana had heard that name before. In passing, and she hadn't dared interrupt to question, then. "Who?" she repeated, allowing a bit of impatience into her tone.

"Former priestess on the Isle of the Blessed," Morgause said, looking over Morgana's shoulder – and into the past, maybe. "She left the sisterhood for the luxury of Camelot's court, and was implicated in Uther's betrayal of magic, when he initiated the Purge."

"Wait – Uther betrayed magic?" Morgana said, incredulous. Why hadn't her sister ever told her _this_? "You mean, at one time, he was-"

"Friends with a sorceress? Oh, yes. Nimueh had something to do with the queen's death in childbirth. Privately she was disavowed, but publicly the rest had to appear to support her choices and actions. And Uther besieged the Isle."

That story, Morgana knew. Her sister had been a child, scant years into a novice's training. And since then, had survived as a refugee herself, bitterly determined to avenge her losses and the persecution of their people.

"And she's here?" Morgana asked.

"I gather it was she who called the Questing Beast again," Morgause said acidly. "For all the good that did her."

"She's been here ever since?" Morgana questioned. "Waiting for what? And-" the better question – "why have you not allied with her?" A priestess from the time before the Purge must have great knowledge and formidable power, after all.

"Not unlike the druids, Nimueh clings to the old ways," Moraguse said scornfully. "She would not recognize or respect my power. She imagines herself still in authority."

And Morgause, Morgana well knew, took orders from no one. Still, it seemed a petty detail when Morgause's alternative was Cenred and his unwieldy, unreliable army.

"Why do you caution me about her now?" she said slowly.

Morgause tossed her blonde ringlet in the moonlight, lifting her chin. "Because magic calls to magic, and there will be rumors about your precious prince. She will hear of him, she will be curious. She may want to claim him as an ally, herself. Maybe he is just what she needs to make a move on Camelot, who knows? Just, stay clear of the Forest of Essetir."

"I will," Morgana promised. And didn't tell her sister that the hostage prince had been released to custody. If Arthur ever went to Essetir, it was likely that Merlin would go, too. But Arthur never disobeyed his Father, did he? He'd never go there.

"Good night, then, sister," Morgause said, seizing Morgana so suddenly she jumped and tensed; her elder sister pressed her marble cheek to hers. "Watch yourself. I don't know what I would do if anything happened to you."

"Nothing will," Morgana promised. "Good night."

As she stepped away, she realized that she hadn't asked about the appearing-from-thin-air trick; but when she turned around, Morgause was already out of sight.

Morgana headed back to Camelot, telling herself that the knot between her shoulder-blades was for the uncanny Knight still motionlessly blocking the path… not for her return to an indefinite life of lies and deceit. Wasn't that what she was trying to avoid by overpowering the Pendragons and ending the Ban, so she was free to be her magic self without fear or restriction?

They would have called her involuntary use of magic treason, and killed her for it. But was she now actually guilty of treason?

No. She would not recognize Uther Pendragon as a legitimate ruler. He was a murderous tyrant, and didn't deserve the throne – doubly so, if he had once befriended magic, then used his position to outlaw and hunt and execute his own people.

She wondered what Merlin would have to say to _that_. Or Arthur.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur couldn't quite credit the scouts' reports, the second day following the fiery night attack. He kept glancing up from the charred remains of the stables that served the Rising Sun tavern, where he was helping clear rubble til the woodcutters and the millers could deliver lumber for rebuilding, courtesy of the royal coffers supplied by taxes collected.

Every time he straightened to search the distance, he expected to see a horde of mercenaries to come streaming down the thoroughfare from the gates of the lower town, swords brandished and he helpless to defend, like in his nightmares. And today, there would be no captive prince to dash to his aid.

There were knights on patrol rather than tasked to this effort that grayed his hands and clothes with fire-charring, here in the lower town as well as scouring the woods for lingering mercenaries and assigned to the destruction of the siege machines. But he suspected that he kept the part of his mind not occupied with his physical labor alert to potential and imaginary attacks so it wouldn't stray to his hostage.

Damn him. Arthur couldn't reconcile the term _evil_ with the prince's person or his magic. It was true he knew next to nothing about sorcery – and he had entertained the treacherous thought before, at least he should understand enough to defend himself and his people, his kingdom, shouldn't he? Merlin seemed so intelligent and level-headed, Arthur was a bit nervous what might happen if he started listening to the younger man. Or, as he knew his father would forbid outright, _believing_ him.

Free the next fire-eaten timber, lift and carry it to the next stack at the side of the road which would be broken and chopped further for cook-fires and kindling. Ignore aching muscles, return for lose masonry that could be scoured and reused. Dust hands and step back for another worker sweeping rubble with a straw broom.

The sun was hovering over the western roofs and Arthur was beginning to eye the remainder of the wrecked stable for a good quitting place to aim for, when the back of his neck prickled. He whirled, expecting to see the mercenaries as he imagined – and remembered – and was startled to see a fine carriage pulled by a pair of nearly-matched roans.

Sir Carles sat alongside an indigo-wrapped driver on the seat in front, and pointed to Arthur. He seemed stunned at the devastation; he didn't hold Arthur's gaze, but stared around him.

Arthur stepped out of the ashy hole in the line of houses and shops left when the stable was hit and burned, and waited for the carriage to reach him. All his muscles throbbed from too much use, and his right wrist was stiff and swelling under its bandage inside his glove.

The driver spoke to Sir Carles, who again pointed to Arthur – and then reached to begin drawing the reins in himself to stop the horses. The man looked irritated beneath his indigo turban, and didn't hesitate to turn the expression on Arthur.

"I'm looking for Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot," the driver called down to him.

"You have found him," Arthur responded. The carriage shutters were open, but the angle was such that he could not see who might be inside. "And you are?" Where he was from, Arthur could guess already, by his clothing and his companion; Sir Carles had been sent as envoy to Caerleon.

"Her Majesty Queen Annis of Caerleon," the driver said – but as he spoke, the door of the carriage opened and Arthur was distracted from fully realizing the identity and significance of his visitor, in his state of sore weariness.

A woman descended, neatly dressed in slender and serviceable gray. A green scarf was tied over her head and around her hair, leaving brown curls down her back; she didn't smile, but she wasn't young or timid, either. Just forty, maybe, and if there had been shock to view the state of Camelot's lower town, there was sympathy now. She held the door open and stood to the side and gestured – the queen's attendant, then.

Arthur moved forward in jerky steps, feeling the impact of the arrival as distant. He would have been better prepared to face Cenred, he thought, not a queen and the surrogate mother of his wounded, chained, fevered hostage. And his father was still too ill to deal with her at all.

The moment he circled the attendant who watched him quietly, he remembered meeting this queen. Years and years ago, when he was a child – before Morgana had come, though by months, only. He had been prepared to like her – she had seemed kind, under some layer of tension he sensed but didn't understand – but the look in her eyes changed when they fell upon him. It was intensity, almost hunger; he hadn't known what it meant, and it had intimidated him then.

And the first thing he noticed about the woman on the edge of the carriage seat, leaning forward – gray in the long red-brown hair bound only by a royal circlet, lines on the unsmiling face – was the absence of that intensity. Mostly there was curiosity in the brown eyes that swept him, down and up.

"Well," she said. "Prince Arthur Pendragon?"

"Your Majesty," Arthur said. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at this turn of fate. "I should offer my hand, but they're in no fit state." He showed her the ashy smears on his gloves, that climbed his sleeves in a tenuous gray stain.

"So I see, and it surprises me," Annis commented. She shifted her eyes to take in the organizes chaos of the destruction behind him. "What happened to Camelot?"

"We were attacked," he said simply. The less he said the better, right now – later, when he was rested and clear-headed, he could choose to say more. But never could a person choose to say less, once words were spoken.

"It sounds like there's a story behind that," Annis observed.

"Perhaps," he allowed. "We can speak further over dinner, if you wish?" He ached to think of the loss of the long bath and quick private meal and early turn-in that he'd been anticipating. "Sir Carles can introduce you to our steward, and he'll show you to guest quarters, until then?"

"Very well, and I thank you," the queen said. She had very keen eyes, but Arthur was too tired to mind. "But I'm sure you'll guess the purpose of my visit, and my disinclination to delay – I've come to see that my prince is well and whole, as a preliminary to negotiations for ransom."

Of course she had. Arthur sighed, feeling his shoulders slump minutely before he caught himself – and had to remember not to rub his face with his filthy gloves.

"What?" the attendant next to him asked in a soft, urgent voice; his reaction had not been lost on her. "What is it? What's happened to him?"

He lifted his brows in quiet astonishment that a servant would dare interrupt a conversation between royals; the woman's color rose to remember her manners, but the intensity of the question – and the emotion that prompted it – kept her eyes on him.

"Prince Merlin was injured in the attack," he said, again keeping the initial explanation simple.

Her eyes widened and she inhaled; Queen Annis only voiced, "Hm."

"Not seriously," he hastened to add. "A long shallow cut that bled. Our physician stitched it, but late yesterday he developed a fever."

"Oh," the servant said, her hand over her heart.

"Prince Arthur," Queen Annis said conversationally, a wry quirk to her lips. "May I introduce to you my friend and companion, Hunith. She is Merlin's mother."

Arthur repeated Hunith's last sound, and only just stopped himself added a dismayed profanity. His mother. His _mothers_. He felt the added ache of missing what he'd never had like a drop of water into a great cup – a twinge, then dying ripples.

"I beg your pardon, my lady," he said, inclining his head. "I didn't realize…"

"Oh, I'm not-" She was troubled, but not flustered, glancing to her queen. "I don't have a title. I never wanted a title."

"Even so," Arthur said, rallying his manners. "It would be my pleasure to invite you both to join me for dinner. My father the king is ill, but his ward the Lady Morgana may join us, also."

Hunith shook her head. "I shouldn't, my lord. Really, I'm grateful… but I shouldn't."

"What happens when I'm gone and your son is king," Annis said to her.

Her cheeks pinked a bit again. "Then he will have a queen wife to sit with him at table."

"Hm." The corners of Annis' mouth turned up. "And _she_ will need your support." Both of them spoke as if they knew the future wife already – the sweetheart mentioned by Merlin's warrior, that first day?

"It may be that he is well enough to join us," Arthur volunteered.

That brought the queen's eyebrows up. "You allow prisoners to your private royal table often?"

"He's not an ordinary prisoner," Arthur noted, knowing that she was testing him. Much like Merlin himself did, say something bordering on outrageous to observe Camelot's response. "And I've released him from imprisonment to custody, as he saved my life during the battle."

Both women were shocked into silence, Hunith's eyes wide. He was aware of Sir Carles and the turbaned driver watching and listening, also.

"There is definitely a story, and I will have it," the queen said, in good-humored earnest. "At dinner, then?"

"Say two hours," Arthur proposed. "The steward will show you to your rooms, and you can visit your prince in the physician's quarters. In either order."

Annis smiled again, suddenly, as if just reaching a conclusion that pleased her. "Til then, Your Highness."

"Majesty." He bowed, stepping back to allow Hunith to ascend into the carriage, and reached to assist her in closing the door. He signaled _carry on_ to Sir Carles, who spoke to the driver, and watched the carriage trundle up the cobblestoned road toward the gates where they'd fought, two short nights ago.

Dinner with Merlin, his mother, the Queen of Caerleon, and Morgana, who had not been acting herself since the battle – and too much like herself, before it. Arthur groaned to think of another short night ahead.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gaius took a deep cathartic breath and let it out slowly, reveling in a rare spare moment of rest when he wasn't actually exhausted, but able to sit at his desk and peruse a book rather than frantically brewing yet another potion to slow blood loss or encourage bone-knitting or inhibit infection. Thinking of infection, he glanced up at the lanky prince lounging on his patient-bed, aware of the occasional turn of a second book's page, and the odds against finding a young man who could be such a simple and easy companion. A royal of another kingdom, with magic.

Merlin was currently looking through a section of Gaius' enormous tome on the human anatomy, details the effects of great or repeated magic use, with notes on attempted use around various types of blocks, like that which swung so innocuously through the young prince's collar. He was propped on his elbow, the fingers of one hand shoved through his curls, blinking drowsily and no longer making any effort to hide his yawns.

Gaius narrowed his eyes, trying to visually ascertain if Merlin's fever had abated. The young man wasn't happy or patient about the development – complication of his wound, continued treatment, or the need for constant supervision – though he seemed perfectly content to remain in these chambers.

As opposed to returning to his cell, obviously.

But he was reading the script on the pages, Gaius could tell. Not growing bored after a moment and flipping on, but… studying? learning?

He looked so much like his father that Gaius' heart and breath tangled for a moment in his chest, and he dropped his eyes to the book laid before him, that his young companion might not notice and question. Merlin was built like his father, long and lean. The way he moved, the way he lifted his head with keen attention and interest for anything and everything around him – the good-humored understanding that seemed innate. Gaius missed the idealistic young dragonlord maybe the most of the idealistic young crowd that had once surrounded his king. And, knowing what had come of the broken-hearted youngster pressed into betrayal of his kin – and then of the young woman he'd chosen to be his kin – Gaius felt an old unfamiliar yearning toward protection again. That this unique unspoiled young man would not have to make such choices, or suffer such losses, or regret such mistakes…

The feeling may be irrelevant, though, if he was reading his own book correctly. Couched in pages of history and related as curiosity rather than fact – prophecy.

A peasant boy had become a prince. The son of the last dragonlord, unknown – a captive of Uther Pendragon, just over a year since the great dragon had made an escape – and Gaius was not the only one to suspect who had aided the creature. The father of the boy who could hear the echoes from Camelot's roots – _Emrys, Emrys, Emrys…_ Return magic to Camelot and unite Albion… and how was he to do that from Caerleon's throne, if this was _him_?

How could it not be. He could push magic past the Endel-Easnes, again and again. And he'd saved Arthur's life when they were barely more than enemies.

No. Gaius decided to agree with Queen Annis – Merlin did have rather enough to be going on with, than to have an old grouch like him trying to persuade him to believe in prophecy and act insincerely trying to fulfill – or avoid, some of these, if he interpreted correctly.

He wondered how he would have handled this boy's tutelage. Life had a way of burdening the young, eventually. He would not add to it.

Gaius closed the book on his desk in a puff of dust, just as the door of the chamber moved to signal a visitor. He lifted his head and opened his mouth to speak, to welcome, but found himself rising to his feet behind his desk, hands braced on either side of the history-book for swiftness and balance.

This woman he recognized. Wearing a dark gray-blue gown and her red-brown hair loose over a white fox-fur arranged casually over her shoulders and a stern expression to make every man lower than a king quake – Queen Annis of Caerleon.

Gaius ignored the guard intoning the introduction. His eyes went straight to the obvious object of her visit – whose tousled curls were nestled in the open pages of the anatomy book, the knuckles of one hand dragging gently on the floor beneath the cot with every breath.

"Your Majesty," Gaius greeted her in a low voice of caution, raising his palms to gesture for quiet.

The queen paused a few paces inside the door, following his gaze, but another woman younger than Annis by a decade or more – plain gray woolens, green scarf over brown hair as long as the queen's down her back – pushed past her and was at the patient-bed in an instant. In one motion she was bending over the prince and lowering herself to sit on the stool beside the cot.

"Please don't," he said immediately, his most strident whisper. "Don't wake him!"

Merlin had been resisting the idea of a midday nap as unnecessary, even flushed and feverish, and maybe part of that was the knowledge of too much work being done by those who'd slept too little, in the lower town. The woman shot Gaius a reproachful look. Merlin didn't stir, and the queen stalked to Gaius at his desk rather than to her sleeping adopted prince. He bowed politely as she reached him, but kept one eye upon-

"His mother," Annis explained softly. "How is he?"

Gaius summarized the wound, his treatment, and the prince's recovery thus far in a few quiet sentences, watching the younger woman – Hunith, then, though their paths had never crossed before now – examine her son as he spoke. Lightly touching the sleeve that covered the bandage, coaxing elbow to bend and lifting his arm to rest on the bed beside him in a way that would prove more comfortable when he woke.

Then, she rose from the stool and came to join them, watching her sleeping son over her shoulder.

"The fever's broken, then," she whispered, sparing Gaius barely more than a glance. There were lines at her eyes that spoke of frequent smiles, but he could clearly see the fresh beauty – the compassion and concern – that must have drawn Balinor, wounded invisibly and to the heart as he'd been, sick with remorse and afraid for his life for the first time.

"I believe so," he returned. "The inflammation of the infection in the wound has subsided, the last time I rebandaged it." He let a pause separate his sentences, then added deliberately, "Welcome to Camelot, Your Majesty… my lady Hunith."

"Just Hunith," she said immediately – exactly as her son had done – and offered a strong and slender hand. "I'm very glad to meet you at last, Gaius. Thank you for taking care of Merlin."

"My pleasure," he said, and meant it.

"You two know each other?" the queen asked, her eyes and attention still on the prince, her posture both relaxed and self-assured.

"We've not met before," Gaius began, but Hunith assumed the tale, speaking to the queen with familiarity and natural but subtle confidence.

"He knew Merlin's father. Saved his life before we met."

"And who was Merlin's father?" Annis said, turning her keen gaze on Gaius.

He had to clear his throat of the emotion brought by memories recalled by the son's resemblance to his father at the same age. "A magic-user. Escaping Camelot and Uther's fury."

How much had Balinor told Hunith, all those years ago? Both women looked unsurprised, yet also faintly unsatisfied, though the queen at least was willing to allow the question to rest, just now.

"Uther," Annis repeated. "We'd heard that he is ill."

"Yes, he is," Gaius confirmed; that was a well-known fact throughout the citadel by now, though the details weren't anyone's business but Arthur's. And perhaps Morgana's, and… he couldn't recall the name of the king's manservant at the moment.

"Arthur's grown into a fine young man," the queen added. "I thought him rather a quiet boy when I last saw him. Maybe a bit on the dull side."

"Camelot is blessed in her future king," Gaius agreed, remembering the occasion of the royal visit, years ago. How she'd been gaunt with tension and white with strain, devouring Arthur visually, to the boy's discomfort, and near ready to murder Gaius for his private refusal, however calmly she and her husband had taken Uther's more public denial of their petition – to be allowed the same magic that conceived Arthur.

Now she looked, almost serenely content. The lines at her eyes and mouth spoke of humor, and there was a subtle sparkle of victorious satisfaction.

"As is Caerleon," Gaius concluded, returning the compliment with a polite bow.

Both women turned to look at the young man on the patient-bed. "Do you know," Annis remarked to him, "we met Merlin and Hunith on our way home from that trip. Fortuitous timing, perhaps."

"Destiny," Gaius declared. Annis raised a skeptical eyebrow.

But Merlin was beginning to move, and Hunith returned to the bedside to perch on the little stool. Annis stood at her shoulder, looking down – and in one instant, Gaius thought to envy the boy for his own prince's sake. To have two such mother-figures in his lifetime, and Arthur none… though he didn't suppose the king of Caerleon was any easier upon his heir than the king of Camelot.

Merlin shifted to his back, blinking up at the queen, and slurred, " 'M skinny 'n clumsy 'n weak…"

"Not for quite some time, dear heart," the queen responded, sounding amused.

And it occurred to Gaius to be jealous of Annis for Ygraine's sake. She'd drawn her last breath at the same time as her son had voiced his first thin wail – she'd never seen the quiet boy, or the fine young man. She'd never stood over his bed to watch him wake after taking a battle wound.

Gaius thought he was growing mawkish in his old age.

Hunith leaned forward. "Merlin. Do you know where you are, my son?"

Gaius came around the corner of the desk, watching Merlin's eyes circumnavigate the room, ending with the vaulted tower-ceiling. He concluded, in the tone of a guess, "In bed?"

Hunith clicked her tongue and gave his hand a fond slap of reprimand for his levity in the situation. The queen snorted and Merlin grinned – then frowned.

"What are the two of you doing in Camelot?"

"We came to visit you," Hunith told him, smiling.

And Annis added, "We need to talk."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Annis had seen the reaction before, in the young man they'd chosen as their heir. His heart was perpetually full of cheer and humor and compassion, and mostly that light shone on his face and in his eyes. And then something, or someone – Thurston, most often – would deliver a reminder of his position, and duty.

It wasn't that the light was denied or suppressed. Instead it coalesced and focused to a candle's point or a single bright shaft of illuminating sunlight.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

Annis turned to Gaius, court physician of Camelot, stoop-shouldered and clever and alone. "May we have a moment to speak in private?"

Gaius didn't immediately answer – and it was Merlin who spoke, clambering stiffly and unsteadily from the little cot to his feet, brushing aside his mother's helping hands. "It's all right. I trust Gaius. As long as we're not plotting, he won't repeat what we've said."

One white eyebrow rose, to be accorded such trust. Annis figured the old man wasn't yet accustomed to Merlin's way – friendly and open to all, yet with a keen discernment of character over a surprisingly short amount of time.

"Perhaps I mean to plot," she suggested smoothly.

Gaius studied her, hands tucked in his sleeves, and still didn't speak. She remembered hating him for his passivity, the last trip, and couldn't feel that, now.

And Merlin answered again. "You wouldn't get very far. Perhaps the guards and knights are busy after the battle, but most of them know who I am, and that I'm to remain in custody with Arthur, or whoever he places me with."

His gesture to the old physician conversely caught Annis' attention away from Gaius. On his feet, Merlin looked white-pale, and still worn. Tired enough to sleep during the day, and the hair close to his scalp was damp yet from fever-sweat. But he smiled at her.

"You saw the guards coming in, didn't you?" he said. "I'm afraid any one of them could stop me going five steps unallowed. They're nervous about the magic, you see, and keep a close eye on me."

"Any one of them?" Annis said with dry disbelief.

A twinkle of humor showed in Merlin's eyes and Hunith's smile, looking up sideways at her tall son. Merlin amended, "Any two of them."

Annis turned her back on Gaius, briefly and abruptly. "Use the magic," she ordered in an undertone.

The humor faded to apology. "I can't."

"Can't?" Annis demanded.

His eyes went past her to Gaius; she heard the old man shuffle back around to the desk chair, giving them tacit privacy. Merlin cupped his hand gently around her elbow – through the fabric of her dress it felt too-warm – pressing her toward the smaller of the room's tables, flanked by a pair of rough unpolished benches. She acquiesced, Hunith followed her, and he had to balance himself on the table to swing his legs over the bench opposite.

Then he reached his good hand to tug at the color of the shirt he wore in Caerleon's color. It wasn't the chain bearing his prince's insignia that showed around his neck, though – the chain he wore was unusually linked, short at his throat, and bore no pendant. "The Endel-Easnes," he said. "Gift from Uther. Stops the magic."

Annis inhaled through her nostrils, slowly and deliberately, at the idea of one of Uther's foul devices on her son – on their son – but Merlin seemed not even to notice, quirking a half-grin over at Gaius.

"Mostly."

Well. Only mostly was better than completely. If escape wasn't possible, in his condition – Annis asked, "Self-defense?"

"Adequate," he answered, immediately and confidently.

"Good."

Hunith interrupted her swiftly-subsequent thoughts about Uther and Thurston and strategies and ploys, Merlin and Arthur. "Does it hurt?"

This time Merlin's smile was sweet and sly – meant to convince his mother, but not enough for Annis, or Gaius, probably. "Only when I'm stupid." Hunith made an unhappy sound, leaning on the table to place a hand on his wrist. His eyes were suddenly shy of meeting and holding theirs, and color rose in his pale cheeks. "Is His Majesty very angry?"

"Not angry," Annis said. Not with Merlin, anyway. "So escape is out," she murmured, "for now. When do you think you might be full health and strength again? Despite your promise against plotting, we have to do something. We can't just leave you here."

Merlin shrugged his good shoulder uncomfortably, watching his thumbnail pick at a sliver in the table. "I know the king won't pay Uther to release me," he said softly. "I said as much to Arthur."

"You said…" Annis repeated, startled. That was… a potentially disastrous slip of the tongue. But he was using the Pendragon's first name, as well as allowing the use of his own? That spoke of…

"We spoke of alternatives," Merlin said swiftly. "He seemed like – if it was up to him, he'd release me after what happened two nights ago."

"He said you saved his life," Hunith said.

Merlin made a face. "It wasn't that dire. But they have some… concerns, that I may be uniquely equipped to aid them with…"

Annis jumped to the only logical conclusion. "Magic? How could Uther possibly barter with you for-"

"Not Uther," he interrupted. "Arthur. Doesn't hate magic, like his father. He's been taught it's evil, and has seen some bad things, but… he listens to me."

Annis sat back, minutely. The way he said that was directly opposite to the way he'd complained to her of Thurston, _he doesn't listen to me_. Maybe there was another reason Merlin wasn't eager to leave this place and return home to face the disappointment of his king.

"Very well," she said slowly. "Carry on with your plans. And I'll… handle the rest." Merlin nodded, looking pleased to be trusted and allowed the responsibility. And tired. Annis added, "Get some rest, now. We're meant to be dining with the prince – you also, if you're well enough."

His eyebrows and the corners of his mouth rose, but the rest of him had difficulty reaching his feet as Annis – and then Hunith – rose smoothly. "I'll persuade Gaius I'm well enough," he said. "So I'll see you later, for dinner."

The old man harrumphed, but no one paid him any mind. Hunith enveloped her son in a hug, going on her toes to kiss his cheek – which was habit for the two – but Annis surprised both of them by reaching for her tall young prince, and holding him close. He was too warm, and only lifted one arm around her. Annis restrained herself from giving him a fierce squeeze – not til this moment had she allowed herself to think of how much she loved this boy, how much she'd missed him, how much she'd worried for him beneath her coolly collected exterior.

As they moved for the door, Annis turned a glare on Gaius. "Take care of him."

The old man was on his feet behind the desk, and bowed his agreement to obedience. "My lady."

Beyond the door was the duty-guard who had led them up the tower stairs, and a second Annis believed was meant for Merlin. They followed their man through the citadel to the quarters where Eafor, the warrior who had accompanied them to drive the carriage, would have brought their baggage before being shown to his own place in the barracks. She was distracted from a half-marveling half-sneering state of mind at the riches around her – soaring ceilings and polished floors of patterned marble, windows of colored glass – by Hunith's repeated sideways glances.

Neither could speak where they might be overheard – by their guide, or others they passed in the corridors and galleries, not too busy with the aftermath of battle to gape at strangers momentarily. But after all these years, Annis could read the other woman's looks as easily as her son's. _He's all right, isn't he? Did you think he was all right? My heavens, though, a battle – and stitches!_

Annis had long ago learned that you didn't look to the injuries on a man's body to gauge the wellbeing of his spirit. And Merlin's spirit, she believed, was just fine. He was being tempered, and he'd come out of this trial the stronger for it. As for _when_ …

She gave Hunith a short nod and a half-smile of amusement. _You worry too much._

And then they were at their door, entering into comfortable and quiet privacy – it wasn't quite the size of her chambers at Beckon Cove, but the hue of the stone made it look and feel lighter. Hunith went to their baggage. "Do you want to change for dinner? I know we traveled light, but…"

Annis crossed to look out the nearest window – cobblestones and manned guardhouse built into the wall and the thick verdure of the forest just beyond. At least in Beckon Cove you could see your enemies coming. "No, let's keep it simple," she decided. "They've just been through their battle, and you saw how Arthur looked."

Hunith hummed. "I was as surprised as you were – I didn't expect the prince of Camelot to be up to his elbows in literal repairs."

"The reports are depressing when you're just looking at parchments," a new voice declared. "Hard to feel like anything's being accomplished, receiving and reading and remaining in the citadel…"

Annis turned from the window in surprise to see a girl just inside the open doorway of the room. She wore embroidered blue-green over a bleached white tunic, and her dusky skin glowed. Curly black tendrils escaped from a practical knot at the back of her neck.

She met Annis' eyes – then dipped a curtsy and added, to preserve deference, "Your Majesty."

"You're right," Annis conceded, moving closer to their visitor. "There is a disconnect between parchment and the people it represents – though many nobles seem not to realize it, or to care. Who might you be?"

"I'm Guinevere," the girl said. "Gwen? I'm Lady Morgana's maidservant but I also act as Gaius' assistant. I came to see if you needed anything, if I could answer any questions."

Annis caught Hunith's quick glance, and agreed to be impressed with the servant girl. She'd be a credit in Caerleon with that bold capability. Annis wondered aloud, "A lady's maid and a physician's assistant?"

"Yes, my – mistress was absent from the citadel this past year, so I learned a new occupation," Gwen replied. Annis wondered at the reason for her hesitation, but she went on. "You've just come from Gaius' quarters? Then you've seen Prince Merlin."

Hunith gave the girl a happy smile, her hands occupied with lifting garments from their baggage and stacking them smoothed onto the table.

"You've seen Prince Merlin?" Annis turned the question back on her. "What do you think of him, then?" Eafer would be getting a similar reading of reactions among the knights, but this girl's opinion was likely to be representative of the commoners of the citadel. The better to estimate the tenor of Merlin's captivity here.

"He's…" Gwen hesitated again, glancing at Hunith and twisting her fingers together in subtle expression of self-consciousness. "He's funny, and brave. And fair. I want to like him."

Hunith paused, tipping her head slightly. "You _want_ to like him?"

Gwen dropped her chin a degree– submissive, but without looking away from them. "Well, the… the magic. Camelot isn't used to… we're just not familiar with…"

"I see," Annis said, and she did. So it wasn't just the prince who was ignorant – Uther's ban left his whole kingdom uneducated and fearful and vulnerable. "You know, magic is nothing to be afraid of. Just respected, like any other skill."

Gwen's smile was both amused and thoughtful. "I believe it might be a violation of the law, to hold or voice an _interest_ in magic."

Annis wondered if Gwen was common among the commoners of Camelot after all. She had not expected them to be intelligent and humorous and open-minded. It was too bad there wasn't to be any treaty between Thurston and Uther…

"Thank you for your thoughts, and your candor," she said only. And possibly the girl was just canny enough to say things to placate them. "I believe we're expected to dinner with your mistress and His Highness in a quarter of an hour. Perhaps you could show us to the dining hall?"

"Of course, if you're ready?" Gwen said, angling her body to the door.

Hunith was accustomed to a solid day's work, and Annis wasn't soft. They'd been sitting all day in the carriage – to be upright and using their legs was good, but she thought they both looked forward to a chance to rest again, to satisfy thirst and hunger before enjoying a night's sleep.

The dining room was small and comfortable, the table sized for twelve but set for five; the head left empty with two places facing three. With King Uther ill, his son clearly had no intention of taking his place even momentarily – and Annis was further impressed. Tapers lit the dining space intimately, but left the corners of the room dim. The fare, as Annis moved to her place at the left hand of the vacant head, was simple but carefully presented, and there was plenty. She had only a moment to react with physical symptoms of appetite before sound and motion at the door signaled the arrival of others – Gaius and Merlin, other voices raised behind them out of sight in the corridor.

Hunith moved behind her down the row of the three adjacent place settings, and they watched and listened as Gaius evidently traded Merlin for Gwen and retired. Then Merlin pushed the door open further for Prince Arthur – washed and brushed but still tired-looking, and the king's ward Morgana in glittering silver silk, throat and ears adorned with jewels. Annis kept a pleasant expression on her face, but inside her eyebrows were lifting at the ostentatious display of wealth, when refugees still lined the roads, beginning to return to hometowns to pick up pieces of their lives.

Greetings all around - Arthur was subdued and formal, Morgana haughty but correct. Merlin seemed more himself, seated between her and Hunith; Annis supposed a good night's sleep would do his recovery a world of good.

Annis approved of the arrangement immediately, and not just for the gauge of Arthur's loyalty and humility as crown prince. Seated so, she could see Pendragon and the king's young lady ward clearly, and sense Merlin's reaction to the two of them also.

Plates were filled and pleasantries exchanged. An abbreviated version of the battle was told – Morgana demanding to know why Merlin had saved Arthur's life, and both boys staring back at her blankly. Perhaps she didn't realize, Annis thought, that such choices were made on instinct and a half-second's notice, and often couldn't be explained logically, afterward.

She was interested in the fact that Merlin had joined the battle at all, safe in a fortress rumored to be impregnable. That he would feel responsible for protecting anyone _here_ , because his motivation would obviously not have been for Camelot's victory. Perhaps she could speak to him further on the topic tomorrow.

Maybe Lady Morgana as well. She seemed ill at east next to the prince, and the looks she shot at Merlin were sharp and challenging, no matter that her speech was polite and appropriate. Annis figured, either Morgana had some issue with magic, or Merlin had managed to insult her. Maybe both.

"So you are Merlin's mother," Morgana said, a repetition of the explanation made at introductions, as the ladies were still picking over the remains of their plates. Merlin toyed with his fork like he thought he should eat more but wasn't feeling it; Arthur chewed slowly and methodically like weariness might be overcoming hunger in his pace. "What was it like to raise a son with magic? Merlin tells me he doesn't recall a time when he couldn't use it – so he must have gotten his magic quite young?"

Arthur straightened, lowering his bite away from his open mouth and frowning at her. "Morgana, the question is unsuitable… and when did he tell you that?"

"I don't see what's unsuitable about it," she returned with a toss of glossy black curls.

Annis wiped her mouth with her napkin and sat back.

"It was hard, at times," Hunith answered, her voice soft with compassion. "Forgive me, Your Highness, I mean no disrespect. But I lived in fear of Camelot and your family, for many years."

It was, Annis reflected, ironically one of the reasons why they had been persuaded to come to Caerleon, initially.

"It wasn't all bad, surely," Merlin said, cheerful but with a catch in his voice. Annis saw only the back of his head as he was turned to his mother, but he gripped her hand on the tabletop.

And Arthur's eyes tracked it.

"There were the flowers," Hunith said, with a reminiscent smile. That made Annis smile to remember, too.

"Flowers?" Morgana said archly.

"I used to make flowers, to cheer her up," Merlin explained. Arthur cleared his throat, the sound very like the word _girl_. "Shut up," Merlin said immediately and audaciously, to his host and captor. "I started doing that before I could talk."

"Impossible," Arthur said, not meeting any of their eyes to focus on his plate. "Magic is a choice."

Annis had heard rumors of drowned children, that seemed to stand that bit of Uther's logic on its head. "There were those," she said smoothly, not quite able to keep from defense, "who wondered if you would be born with magic, Prince Arthur."

He froze, staring at her.

"Why did they think that?" Morgana demanded intently. Merlin had shifted sideways in his seat to stare at her, also.

"My husband and I adopted Merlin as our heir because we were unable to have a child of our own," Annis continued, speaking solely to Pendragon. Ignorant, not adversarial. "Your father and mother had a similar problem – magic was consulted and a solution found. Many thought perhaps the process would result in a magic-wielding child, but… evidently not."

"Magic was consulted," Morgana said, with some inexplicable excitement lighting her eyes. "You mean Nimueh?"

"The priestess was an accepted member of Camelot's court," Annis said, curious to know how Morgana knew that name – perhaps from her life before she'd become Uther's ward. What family was she born into?

"Of Camelot's court?" Merlin repeated incredulously.

"No, that can't be right," Arthur said slowly, shaking his head, lines of confused tension drawing over his face in the candlelight. "My father would never… _No_."

His eyes returned to her face, and his expression _changed_ , and Annis inhaled sharply. The father's son, indeed. He pushed back his chair.

"This is a conversation that borders on treason, for us, and grave insult for you, Your Majesty. I suggest we all retire for the night, and limit our speech to pertinent matters, in the morning." He rose, and manners dictated that the rest of them leave their seats also. With a single cold bow that encompassed them all, Pendragon turned and strode stiffly from the room.

 _Hells_. Annis sighed. Well, if that was her one chance to impart truth and sow seeds of doubt that might lead to questioning and truth, so be it. Too bad for Uther to lie to his son and heir, though.

"Hells," Merlin blurted, unknowingly repeating her mental curse. "I'm meant to stay in his custody. Good night, Mother – Majesty – my lady." He kissed Hunith's cheek, touched Annis' shoulder in passing, and disappeared through the door after Arthur.

Lady Morgana bit her lip as she looked after them, turned to Annis and Hunith with her mouth opened on another question – then shut it, curtsied, and swept from the room also.

"Well, then," Annis remarked, allowing weariness to steal over her also, at the clear and abrupt close of the day.

"He'll be all right, won't he?" Hunith said quietly. Of course she was speaking of Merlin, forced to keep Arthur Pendragon's company when he'd been provoked, but it seemed to Annis like someone should worry about Arthur's wellbeing, too.

"Heaven only knows," she said. "Come, Hunith – we'll wait to see what tomorrow brings."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur stalked down the hall. Every stride stretched aching muscles up his legs and his back right to a building headache, and every footfall rattled another bone-deep bruise.

He was weary to death of fighting and not winning, fighting with every fiber and in every aspect of his being. It seemed as if the searching and skirmishing of this whole damn year had exploded, rather than subsiding.

Morgana wasn't the same, no matter how much she wanted them to think it. But he couldn't comfort and reassure her to confide in them and allow them to help her, when he and everyone else was agonizing over the advance and retreat of Cenred's army. The thing with bandits on Caerleon's border had complicated exponentially and now he was faced with royal guests who would argue one of Camelot's basic tenets with him every chance they got – supported by Morgana? – and while Uther's mind was so ill his body suffered.

It had been easy to allow that little bit of Merlin's magic that seemed to assist them in the battle – but that led to appreciation for its effectiveness in their defense. And how many times hadn't his father said, magic is insidious like that? Curiosity bred doubt, and doubt crept in at the corners when you weren't looking. And now he wasn't going to be able to completely deny thoughts of children with magic and children of magic, his mother and his birth and his father's court from before he could remember.

Arthur growled to himself, slamming into his room. Likely those thoughts would keep him from a good night's sleep, too.

When the doors didn't rebound and slam shut again behind him, he turned to find Merlin, of all people, closing them quietly and calmly, and he almost tripped on the corner of the rug, so surprised was he at the unexpected appearance of the younger prince, in his private chamber. Merlin turned, and caught something of his shock from his expression, pausing at the doors. "Or…" he said, "you could chain me to the wall again?"

He touched his wrists together and gestured to the wall beside the door, confusion showing in his eyes in spite of the sarcasm.

Hells. He'd forgotten the custody of his hostage. Arthur thrust his fingers into his hair, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead and growling again. He did not want to go all the way to the cells, or to the physician's tower, but he hadn't given any thought to nighttime accommodations.

Well… he swung about to study his chambers in an instant. Merlin was _not_ sharing the bed. But to assign him to the rug by the hearth like a dog would be rude, so…

"There's an antechamber, through that door," Arthur said brusquely, gesturing and turning away to his changing screen. "My manservant doesn't use it. Let me know what you need."

Soft footfalls tracked the prince's progress across the room as Arthur retreated behind the screen to shed his clothes for a light comfortable pair of sleeping trousers. It took him an awkward set of moments; his wrist was still stiff and sore, puffy and purple. And he'd die before admitting it, but in the moment he was exceedingly glad that Merlin said nothing.

There was no door between the two chambers, but guards at either end of the external corridor would ensure that the hostage stayed where he belonged. Arthur felt no compunction sleeping in close quarters with the son of his enemy – if Merlin wanted him dead, he could have let Arthur die in battle. Reaching his bed, he let himself fall diagonally across it, feet hanging off and arms spread to embrace the comfort.

"Your manservant doesn't use it?" Merlin asked, from somewhere closer than the doorway.

Arthur freed one eye from the valley he was making in the coverlet to watch Merlin saunter closer to lean on the bedpost, glancing curiously around the room. Barefoot now – silent on his feet – shirt untucked and collar unlaced to show the magic-blocking necklace. Arthur freed his mouth also.

"I don't like sharing my room," he told Merlin in a petulant mumble.

Merlin's eyebrows went up in an expression of amusement. "What, do you talk in your sleep? Reveal state secrets?"

"I walk in my sleep," Arthur said. "I arm myself and attack the nearest person, in my sleep."

Merlin snickered, reaching down to grab a handful of bedding, as if comparing Arthur's layers to whatever he'd found in the antechamber – but then he drew the coverlet back to open the sheets. "You look half-dead," he observed. "Roll off of this. I'm sorry you had to deal with us, at the end of this day of all days. Thank you for showing courtesy to my queen, and my mother."

His heart throbbed in his chest, but Arthur only grunted, rolling onto the exposed sheet.

"How's the lower town today?"

"Damaged." Arthur sighed against the edge of a pillow – then tugged it down under his head. "But recovering."

"Good."

He felt the sheets and coverlet untucked and smoothed to cover his feet, then the sense of Merlin's presence retreated, taking all but the light of a single candle with it.

"This may sound utterly stupid, coming from me," Merlin said softly, from far away by the antechamber doorway. "But I truly hope you have a restful night, Arthur."

If he responded at all, the memory of it was lost in sleep.


	16. Suggestions and Suspicions

**Chapter 16: Suggestions and Suspicions**

Arthur bolted upright from his bed before his eyes were fully open, one hand finding the post and the other the hilt of the sword hanging in its sheathe there. Bedclothes tangled around his legs as he crouched on the mattress, and drew air deliberately quickly through his lungs to bring himself to immediate full alertness.

Across the room, his manservant froze wide-eyed, bending over the breakfast tray at the table, the lid of a dish in his hand – the source of the faint metallic chime that had Arthur reacting defensively. Dawn poured in at the window with the curtain drawn back to welcome the light.

Well, it was good to know that Caerleon probably couldn't kill him in his sleep, even if he'd wanted to. Arthur's reflexes, still in slumber, were nonetheless intact.

Arthur sighed, releasing his weapon and flapping his hand at the servant to carry on as he climbed reluctantly off the bed. Breakfast tray laid out, the wardrobe was the next consideration.

"Is it the lower town again this morning?" the man asked, ruffling through Arthur's garments.

"Not today." He splashed water over his head at the wash-basin, and dried himself with the towel on his way to the changing screen. "Give me something halfway between casual and formal." The repairs would continue without his nominal help – he had larger and more pressing concerns.

As long as the mercenaries kept retreating and disbanding. The last reports had the mass of the army across the border – but such a company wasn't kept together by loyalty. And without the plunder of fallen Camelot for them to divide and enjoy, there might perhaps be more trouble for the short-handed patrols to deal with.

Arthur was halfway through a swift and preoccupied breakfast when Merlin came through the antechamber doorway – tousled, yawning, and barefoot. He held back a sardonic grin as the younger man groaned through a stretch, stumbled on the rug, then tested his injured arm gingerly.

"Morning," Merlin grumped, plopping down in the chair next to Arthur without an invitation – then reaching to help himself to the last of the sausages. Off the platter, with his fingers, shoved entirely into his mouth.

"Do they not have plates or cutlery in Caerleon?" Arthur inquired, more amused than truly irritated; he was always brought three times as much as he could actually eat, just so he'd have plenty of whatever he wanted, and the servants wouldn't be sent for more of anything.

Merlin chewed thoughtfully, and a glint in his eye warned Arthur. "Nope," he said, without swallowing to clear his mouth first. "We eat right off the table. 'S considered _fine_ manners to use our fingers first." He rubbed greasy fingertips together to demonstrate for Arthur, then reached for a boiled egg.

Arthur shook his head, then snapped his fingers to get the servant's attention away from gathering the laundry. "Draw a bath," he instructed, "and fetch Sir Leon."

"But you bathed last night, sire," the servant dared point out.

Arthur rolled his eyes, counting the man's remaining service as a matter of days. "Not for me," he enunciated mockingly. "For this one." The servant bowed, slightly red in the face, and left without making another sound.

"I washed last night," Merlin objected, peeling his egg. "Gaius has soap and water."

"Gaius does not have a full tub," Arthur reminded him. Merlin's eyebrows rose in agreement – and appreciation. "And… pick something else to wear. From my wardrobe, for now."

"From your wardrobe?" Merlin said, genuinely astonished, and it made Arthur feel uncomfortably self-conscious.

"You have one shirt, Merlin," he said sarcastically. "Perhaps you can't afford any more than that, even when you're _raiding_ -"

"I clean my clothes with magic when I'm away from the palace," Merlin interrupted. "I don't need more than-"

"This is Camelot," Arthur snapped. "And I don't want to hear another word about magic." He pushed back from the table, aware that Merlin's eyes followed him as he retrieved his soft-hide vest and shrugged it on over the deep-blue shirt he wore.

"Arthur, if this is about last night," the younger prince began.

"I am not discussing it with you," Arthur ground out, not even looking toward the table as he strode to the door.

"But what about – what we said about me using magic for-"

Arthur yanked the door open and whirled on Merlin. "You're a hostage," he spat. "If you don't want to find yourself locked behind bars again, I suggest that you respect the laws of the kingdom that holds you!"

Merlin held his eyes for a moment. Then said steadily – with the hint of a challenge – "If you want my respect, you have to earn it."

Arthur could think of nothing to say to that. But in the next moment, Leon was turning the corner into the corridor and Arthur turned his back to step outside the room.

"You have custody of the hostage," he instructed his knight, who nodded. "Keep him in the citadel, above ground level… Use your best judgment about where he's allowed to go." Leon nodded again, and Arthur added for explanation, "I'm going to visit my father."

There were questions. There were _questions_. Arthur convinced himself that he'd calmed, by the time he reached his father's chamber.

But the first glimpse of the king – sitting up in bed, nightshirt stained with spills from the breakfast picked over on the tray next to him – had frustration rising again. The dull gray of his father's gaze, watching him approach and take a seat by the bedside without reaction, frustrated him.

Because frustration-irritation-anger was better-easier-safer than _fear_.

"Good morning, father," he said, and it sounded like a question in his own ears. "How are you today?"

At least Uther was looking at him, not at invisible phantasms in the air. He seemed calm to the point of being half-asleep, still – but that was better than terrified, wasn't it.

"Arthur," he rasped. "It is morning. I'm having my breakfast."

At least he was speaking. Even if he sounded eerily and abnormally childlike. Or as if he thought Arthur was still a child, to be so spoken to. At least he recognized Arthur. Even if he couldn't have eaten more than half a dozen bites of his breakfast.

"Did you sleep well last night?" Arthur tried.

His father's eyes went a little vague, like he couldn't remember, or wasn't sure why Arthur was asking, and shifted away to the tray in seeking answers, or distraction.

"Do you feel like getting up?" Arthur said. "Maybe after a bath and a change of clothes – maybe some fresh air – you'll feel more yourself."

The blank gaze returned to Arthur.

"You'll feel better," Arthur amended.

"I do feel better," the king said. And he did look and sound like it, though neither Arthur nor Gaius had ever found anything like a cursed object.

Arthur wondered if perhaps such enchantments could just wear off an object that might otherwise appear ordinary, like the spell that enabled the sword to kill the immortal Knights – and then wondered if he could still ask that spell-caster, his opinion. If he _should_ ask, or simply ignore the reasons for the improvement of his father's health, and only search for who might be responsible. A difficult task, in the upheaval after the battle, and the presence of the sorcerer-hostage, and the need to return and keep the peace.

"Because," Arthur said delicately, leaning forward in his seat, "we have company. Queen Annis of Caerleon arrived yesterday."

"Annis," his father repeated, staring into the middle of the room, over Arthur's shoulder. "Of Caerleon. I remember her. She was angry."

"Angry about what?" Arthur asked gently.

Was it fair to press for answers and information when his father was not yet in his rightful mind? Was this the only way he could trust his father's veracity, if he couldn't think to dissemble.

"She wanted… the impossible." Arthur began to form another question, but Uther shook his head, his chin and gaze dropping, and repeated, "Impossible. Impossible… Ygraine…"

The word clenched around Arthur's heart in his chest. Maybe he would regret knowing, and wish he could return to ignorance. But… "Annis spoke of my mother," he said softly. "She couldn't conceive. For a long time."

He'd heard as much, all his life. That his mother had been neither young nor strong as most women were to become mothers for the first time, and so she had died in childbirth. But magic was something he'd always assumed his father had hated forever as a universal evil, and only waited to consolidate his power sufficiently after conquering Camelot's territory, to begin enacting the laws that would cleanse his new kingdom. And that vaguely coincided with the time of Arthur's birth, give or take.

Uther's head bobbed. "For a long time."

Arthur took a risk. "And what did Nimueh have to say about that?"

His father went absolutely still. And Arthur fully expected him to lift his head and glare, eyes fiery with temper, and bellow orders and punishments at the top of his lungs. But the king only whispered, "Nimueh."

"She was part of your court?" Arthur tested. "A sorceress?"

A fine shudder rippled Uther's stained nightshirt, and seemed to loosen his slackened skin still further. "I loved your mother," he whispered. "There isn't a day passes that I don't wish she were still alive. I could never have done anything to hurt her."

"All right, father, all right," Arthur soothed, feeling both guilty and dissatisfied. He hadn't meant to agitate his father – but he was just as confused now as when he'd come in. "I'll move this tray and you can relax and rest. I'll get Gaius for you."

"Gaius said no good would come of it… he asked for her help anyway," the king mumbled. "Ygraine gave her life… he swore not to tell… He's a good friend. An ally. The war on magic. Said he'd never do it again."

Arthur almost dropped the tray, before settling it deliberately onto the bedside table. "Gaius said he'd never do what again? Whose help did he ask, and for what?"

"War on magic," Uther mumbled, slumping down sideways into his pillow. "We were winning. Weren't we? But there was always another, and another, and another…" His eyes drifted closed, his mouth open to breathe heavily against the red velvet.

Arthur retreated to the door and paused, looking back at his father. A broken man, whose recovery was by no means certain. A man haunted by the choices he'd made… and hidden. There were others here in Camelot who must know at least some of the truth, and Arthur was determined to seek them out, only… he was very afraid, deep down, that he might lose the respect and trust he'd always held for his father.

And then what?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin was too dismayed to eat much of Arthur's breakfast, or to enjoy it properly.

 _I don't want to hear another word about magic._

He regretted last night distinctly, though he'd never heard the rumor about Arthur's parents consulting magic to conceive their crown prince, before. True or not, it had caused Arthur to retreat behind Camelot's principal law.

Merlin supposed the prince had gone to check on the veracity of the claim. And how had Morgana known the name of the sorceress allegedly involved – presumably from her sister.

What did this mean for his tentative arrangement with Arthur? Let the kings negotiation – which was smoke and noise, as far as Caerleon was concerned – while he and Arthur made some private deal…

He recognized Sir Leon from the patrol that had captured him. The knight leaned against the wall beside the open door, ostensibly guarding Merlin, as the servants filling the tub behind the screen entered and left the room with their buckets, and Merlin picked over the remains of the breakfast tray.

The curly-haired knight watched him, in an unusually focused way, like he was on the point of speaking, but couldn't or wouldn't while there was another in the room. Merlin was aware of it while the bath was half-full, and when the last servant bowed out, Merlin stood from the table.

"Well?" he said to Sir Leon.

"The sword you gave Arthur, the night of the attack," the knight commented casually, without moving. "You did something to it. Enchanted it."

He'd admitted as much to Arthur, who could tell the whole kingdom, if he liked… and the blacksmith Elyan, Gwen's brother, had seen him do it. Merlin shrugged, passing to Arthur's wardrobe and choosing plain clothing that looked more worn than new – brown trousers and a faded dark-red shirt. "It's worn off by now. I told Arthur that."

Sir Leon still didn't move, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, watching Merlin move to the dressing screen, behind which was the tub nearly full of hot water. "Arthur killed four the of the Knights of Medhir with that sword."

Merlin wasted no time shucking his old clothes, and stepping into the bath, careful not to slosh water or get the bandage around his upper arm wet as he sank to luxurious depths.

Sir Leon spoke again. "But there were seven Knights, altogether."

"So they say," Merlin sighed, slipping down so he could dunk his head under the surface of the water – then reaching for the soap one of the servants had laid to hand.

"What happens if we meet the other three," Leon persisted.

Merlin knew very well what would happen. The Knights had been created, hundreds of years ago, by a necromantic ritual. Black magic. He wouldn't just step aside.

"Are you asking me to do magic in Camelot?" Merlin tried to make his voice sound insulted and astounded. It wasn't easy to wash, one-handed, but it felt so good he didn't mind taking a while, or being clumsy. "I'm wearing this necklace –" stuck to his skin with residual bathwater – "so I couldn't possibly."

Sir Leon said a single word indicating his disbelief, and Merlin snickered to hear it from the proper knight. "We've fought magic before, and we'll do it again. But our losses are steep, and Arthur fights from the front. From what I've seen of you, you could probably manage your own escape without too much trouble, couldn't you?"

What a question. "Of course not," Merlin answered, tipping his head back to rinse his hair, then relaxing back into a sprawl in the tub. "It would be a _lot_ of trouble. That's why I'm biding my time for the perfect moment."

Sir Leon made a skeptical-amused noise. "You can tell Arthur I said this, if you like. But I fully expect whatever sorcerer raised those things, to send the rest of them. Maybe not in the middle of a battle again, but somehow and sometime soon. And if you stay and help us – help Arthur – finish them off… Well, then, we wouldn't trouble your escape much at all."

Merlin shifted, contemplating the ripples on the surface of the bath. "Arthur's a little down on magic at the moment," he said. "If it's your business why, he can tell you. I thought he was starting to listen to me, but… maybe he won't anymore."

"And that would stop you?" Leon asked.

"He holds my bond," Merlin said softly.

"You want his permission to escape, then…"

"Our kingdoms are enemies, but that doesn't mean we have to be," Merlin said, sitting up and reaching for the towel. "I was sent raiding because my king and yours won't get along, and people died. And no one is responsible for that but me, but – they're responsible for the situation, and I don't want that to continue. In my reign." The words felt awkward in his mouth; he'd never said anything like that, and often avoided thinking it.

Sir Leon said nothing further, and Merlin dried himself and dressed with the same stiff awkwardness, running fingers through his hair and leaving shaving for another day.

Stepping out to the main chamber, Merlin's attention was caught by the breakfast tray. "Does someone take care of that?" he said. Leon blinked confusion, straightening from his post by the wall, and Merlin amended, "I mean, it doesn't get thrown out, does it? Someone eats it?"

"I – honestly have no idea," Leon said, looking around as a pair of servants came sliding in, not meeting his gaze or Merlin's to continue with their work. "What do they do in your palace?"

"If I'm not taking a meal with Their Majesties – and I never do, for breakfast – I just eat in the kitchens. As much as I want, and nothing left over, then. We can make sure this gets to some family that needs it, can't we?" Both servants – one with his discarded clothing in hand already – were staring.

"We can," Leon said, looking to signal to the servants. "In the meantime, where to, Your Highness?"

"You might as well just say Merlin," he said, following the knight to the door and reaching for the handle, only to have the older man open it for him. "Thanks. Maybe you could show me the guest chambers where my mother and my queen are staying?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana couldn't wait to leave her chambers, in the morning. Her mind wouldn't quit worrying over questions raised by the visitors – ones to which her sister had demanded answers – and the contemplation of what would be done next, by anyone who'd sat around the dining table, the previous night.

Approaching the open gallery that led to the guest chambers, Morgana noted Queen Annis and Merlin by the handrail that overlooked the drop to the interior courtyard, facing each other in conversation that required complete focus. Sir Leon in usual and requisite chainmail stood at respectful attention at the opposite end; Morgana slowed and quieted her steps, pausing behind the supporting column at the end of the gallery to listen, if she could.

Queen Annis was saying, "…Was worried about you, after his reaction last night. I recall his father used to threaten lives when he was irritated."

"He sort of did," Merlin answered. "I mean, I think he was joking. This morning he ordered me a bath and loaned me clothes – though he refused to discuss magic."

Morgana allowed her lips to curve. In some ways, Arthur was quite like his father. And in others… not so much. She had to believe that he'd acknowledge the truth and rescind the Ban, once they got Uther out of the way and put Arthur on the throne.

"…Wanted to ask you," Merlin continued. "Why you said that, about Uther consulting a sorceress about having an heir. How do you know? There's more to that story, there has to be."

Morgana pressed into the column, wanting to draw closer, to hear more clearly – but unable to do so without being seen.

"Rumors," Annis said. "A priestess of the Old Religion in Camelot's court, that was common knowledge, though I don't suppose the people of this kingdom have been allowed to remember that. The length of time from Uther's marriage to his heir's birth, also fact – it seemed everyone was concerned about the lack of heir for the king, especially after the turbulent way Uther took the throne. We came here years later to ask if we could be allowed to duplicate the process. Nimueh was long gone, of course, but Gaius remained and we expected he would _know_ , even if he couldn't duplicate the magic – but we could then find someone who could, elsewhere."

"Someone like Alator?" Merlin asked.

Morgana _wondered_ for two seconds, then remembered the unnamed druidic tutor.

"Yes, exactly. I… never mentioned it to the king, but I privately decided, if the price of the magic was the mother's life to birth the child, I was willing to pay that."

The silence was startled for a moment before Merlin blurted, "Because… Queen Ygraine died giving birth to Arthur… Oh! no wonder Uther hated magic - _hells_ , if the life-for-life magic had taken his wife…"

Morgana covered her open mouth before she could make a sound. And that was why Uther would have seen Ygraine, while under the mandrake's enchantment. Because he felt guilt and responsibility in the matter of her death.

"There are very few who know for sure, I suppose," the queen went on. "But it is logical. And when we came to ask, what Uther denied us was the _knowledge_ of the magic, not the existence and efficacy and previous use of it."

And there was a difference, Morgana saw, between saying, _There is no such thing_ , and, _You can't have or use it_.

"…Does this mean for your release?" Annis' words brought Morgana back to the present, and the queen and prince before her.

"I don't know. The way things are now are bearable, though, not unpleasant, so there's no reason to rush, or risk and ruin things," Merlin answered, presumably referring to some plan of action previously discussed. "But there are… other options to keep open."

His voice sounded different as he said that, and Morgana dared to lean around the pillar to look. Merlin was just turning back to Annis, having evidently glanced to Sir Leon at the end of the gallery for the moment. Maybe to see that he hadn't been overheard… What options? Maybe he was thinking further on what Morgana had said to him, offering to remove the magic-blocking necklace if they could come to terms.

But he'd caught sight of her; Morgana stepped out as if she'd never halted, rounding the corner into the gallery with her chin high. The queen turned to follow Merlin's attention, though probably she'd also heard Morgana's footsteps, too, now that she wasn't hiding.

"Good morning, Your Majesty, Your Highness," Morgana said, with a curtsy. She was primarily interested in speaking to Merlin, but there was something unsettling about Annis' gaze. A queen, without magic, but arguably more familiar with it than Morgana herself. And had her adopted son told her about Morgana's magic?

"Good morning, my lady," Annis said evenly. "How may we be of service to you?"

"I wanted to speak to Merlin for a moment, if I'm not interrupting," Morgana said, striving to equal the other woman's cool self-possession. "After last night…"

"There's no need to caution or remind us of the prince's request," the queen said. "We will respect his wishes not to discuss magic or its uses, past or present."

Which is what she would say if she didn't know Morgana had magic, and was only to be treated as the impressionable ward of Uther Pendragon. She allowed a smile of relief, as Merlin rolled his eyes behind his queen, where she couldn't see him, for the complication of the situation. Morgana was sure he'd keep her secret, though she couldn't immediately see how that knowledge might be used against her, or against them, she didn't expect Annis to promptly consider her on their side, for that one fact of her possession of magic.

Why then, an unusual voice of reason startled her, had she considered Merlin an ally in Morgause's plan, for the simple fact of shared abilities?

"I won't," Merlin said impudently. "I won't respect his wishes unless they're sensible wishes. What do you want to know, Morgana?"

She nearly made a face at him, acting innocent after the conversations – the arguments – they'd had. But the queen was right there, so she didn't, and Annis reached to slap Merlin's uninjured arm in gentle reproof.

"Aren't you in enough trouble already?"

"Exactly," Merlin responded with a twinkly-eyed grin. "A little more can't hurt. Probably."

"Not here," Morgana said, conscious of Sir Leon's attention, if not curiosity, and the possibility that he'd overhear something, and tell his prince or his king anything to alert their suspicions. Arthur already expected that she'd help Merlin escape, and would stop her doing it if he could. "Perhaps I could show you the library of Camelot? We have quite an extensive collection, several rare volumes…"

There Sir Leon could stand guard outside the door, giving them more privacy. One way into and out of the library, unlike this open gallery where Leon's honor would require him to _watch_ the prisoner he had custody of. And Morgana could excuse herself as entertaining the visiting royal female, and Merlin's presence incidental.

"And records, I presume?" Annis guessed, with the suggestion of a smile.

The noise of a door opening and closing beyond Sir Leon momentarily captured their collective attention, but when Hunith glided into view with a small basket like Gwen used for her sewing over her arm, the queen signaled her to join them.

"Certainly we'd love to see the library," Annis concluded.

So Morgana found herself leading the three of them, and Sir Leon, to the library. She hadn't gotten anywhere asking Merlin why he'd saved Arthur's life – it might be some inexplicable caveat in the Knight's Code, that wouldn't make sense to anyone else – and she already knew as much as he did about the circumstances surrounding Arthur's birth and Nimueh. If Annis knew more, Morgana wasn't sure she wanted to ask; the queen of Caerleon seemed crafty and cunning – but surrounded by barbarian men, Morgana supposed she'd have to be. Perhaps she handled the king like Morgause handled – used to handle – Cenred. In which case, she'd probably be on guard for someone intending to handle the heir she'd chosen and raised, the same way.

Arriving at the library, she introduced the guests to Geoffrey – and Sir Leon took a post just inside the door, though he could only see the space before the first pair of giant bookshelves clearly. Annis seemed interested in continuing a conversation with the elderly court recorder, so Morgana made a show of asking after Merlin's interests, and he mentioned history. And bestiaries?

Hunith gave him a nod and a smile, and retreated to a window seat with her basket – it was indeed sewing, Morgana discovered with her backward glance.

"Did you see your sister last night?" Merlin tossed over his shoulder, leading her to gloomy depths between rows three and four, away from the windows. "I assume that's how you knew about Nimueh?"

Morgana resisted the urge to find and hurl a sharp-cornered book between the shoulder-blades beneath one of Arthur's older shirts. "No." Well, to the first question, anyway.

Merlin glanced back, lifting his hand to drag his fingertips along the spine-bases of the books shelved as they walked. "Doesn't Gwen get suspicious?"

"Does it matter?" Morgana countered. She had taken two dresses and a cloak to the laundresses herself to bypass Gwen's keen eyes and persistent questions, but Gwen thought romantically that her disappearance – and reappearance, and any nighttime excursions she suspected – had to do with a _man_.

"She's your friend, though." Merlin stopped and faced her, looking back the way they'd come as if to assure himself of their privacy, now.

"She's my servant," Morgana corrected, trying to ignore a twinge that felt like disloyalty. Merlin gave her a look that said he was disappointed in her definition of the relationship, and she wasn't haven't his judgment. "So how do you go from conjuring flowers for your mother to defending your enemy in battle?" she demanded.

"How do you get to trying to tear down the citadel where you were raised, and using dark magic against people that care about you?" he challenged.

"I owe them nothing," she declared. "If they knew of my magic they'd turn on me, they'd watch me burn. And there's no such thing as-"

"Are you so sure of that?" he interrupted. "Arthur – Gwen – Gaius? They wouldn't lift a finger to defend or help you? They actually hate magic that much?"

She said, "Yes," but even she could hear the uncertainty in her voice. Hadn't Gwen said, she'd see her happy with a sorcerer, if he was a good man? And Arthur didn't hate Merlin, no matter that he was also a foreign barbarian who'd attacked their people… Would they hate her for her magic?

Would they hate her for her lies and deception.

"Your sister told you that, didn't she." Merlin shifted closer, and his eyes were gentle. "Told you that magic would make your friends turn on you, so you couldn't tell them, and in your heart you don't think you can risk it. She was the only one who could understand you, and you want to please her, so you don't disagree and you do your very best to please her and make her proud, even if you're not certain, deep down, that she's right."

Morgana stared up at him, and he smiled.

"I can make that guess because I've felt the same, at least a little. Not about magic… about the responsibility of ruling. And my king."

"So you're telling me that I'm wrong, but you're right?" she said, hands on her hips.

"No, I'm saying… it isn't easy, to recognize that you trusted too blindly, and try to find the truth and change, and maybe compromise with the person we look up to."

Morgana shook her head, and moved past Merlin. Compromise, with Morgause. Impossible, even if she wanted to.

"I'm not convinced I trusted blindly at all," she said. "And why should I trust you instead of her anyway? How can you prove you're right and she's wrong?"

"I can't." Merlin caught her arm, his fingers sliding subtly over the green silk of her sleeve, and she looked up at him again. "I can explain magic to you the way it was explained to me, good magic and evil, and then you'll have to… make up your own mind."

"You sure you don't want to save this speech for Arthur?" she said sourly, shrugging off Merlin's hand. He allowed it without taking offense.

"Arthur is a good man, I think. He's got to work through the same thing – having trusted someone too blindly – but he will, at his own pace."

"Slow and stubborn," she said, almost sneering, but Merlin grinned.

"I'm not leaving anytime soon."

She looked at him again, not just into his eyes, but letting her gaze wander over his face, his hair – the necklace at his throat – his body and the way he held himself, in Arthur's clothes, but definitely _not_ Arthur. Attraction stirred inside her, hot and not unpleasant – and she wanted to prolong the sensation, to gaze into his eyes and watch his mouth when he talked and own his attention exclusively for a while. It was flattering, too, what he suggested – no one had approached her that way before. _I'll tell you what I think, and you decide_. Morgause told her how to think, Uther Pendragon tried to tell everyone what to think; even her tutors had been the same.

"Very well," she said.

"Okay." He thought for a moment, straightening and directing his eyes over her head, as he directed his thoughts inward. "First of all, what is the purpose of magic?"

"I don't know what you mean," she said, but she inclined her head and he followed her, down the row of shelves and around the corner to a small set of table-and-chairs, strewn with several blank sheets of parchment, an inkwell and quill.

"Why do some people have magic, and some not," Merlin continued, easing down in his chair at right angles to her as she took the head of the table. "Is it all a trick of fate? A useless inheritance of our forefathers? Is it only good as another way of fulfilling the basic human drive for sustenance and shelter and procreation? For comfort, for defense? Is it legitimate for anyone to use magic however they see fit?"

Morgana opened her mouth to answer _yes_ – she was nearly certain that was what Morgause believed, _free magic_ – except that she could anticipate several examples when the answer would be clearly _no_. She and Arthur had fought against that themselves, more than once. Should they all have died – or moved – to allow the afanc its dwelling in the cistern?

"No," she said instead. "It should serve the greatest good." Like, taking one king off his throne that hundreds might be freed from fear and prejudice.

Merlin only hummed. He'd taken the stopper from the inkwell, dipped the quill, and began drawing a series of overlapping circles on one of the sheets. "I was taught that men were not gifted magic for our own use. That such selfishness can lead to dark magic just as easily as magic used in fear, or to cover guilt, or to buy revenge."

"For whose use, then?" she said, confused.

"This is our world." He indicated one of the circles he'd drawn, with a quick glance at her. "But there are other realms and other beings, and sometimes they intersect with ours – Gaius told me about some you've encountered, and there are others I've read about, also."

Morgana put her elbow on the table and leaned her cheek against her fist.

"Our magic is given to us so that we can guard and protect our world from otherworldly beings who mean us harm. To close portals."

"What about dark magic, then?" she demanded – and immediately corrected herself. "I mean, what you called dark magic."

"That is…" He looked past her again, to think and formulate his words, frowning a little and pursing his lips in a way that made her notice them. "The abuse of our power. Like I said, selfishly or for revenge. Twisting the natural order, like the mandrake that wants to stay in the ground, or the rowan tree's sacred protection killed and reversed. Or… those Knights of Medhir."

She shivered involuntarily and drew his attention back to her face, and then he looked sad, to see that she knew what he was talking about, personally.

"Necromancy," he said. "The spirits of the dead. Another realm that touches ours-" his hand flattened over the parchment – "but a disruption or reversal of the natural order. To make them what they became, and to use them now."

She looked down. It felt that way to her, abnormal and abhorrent. And she hadn't wanted to touch the mandrake, and she had felt – something – to handle the staff even before it was planted and active. But how could she admit that her sister was such a person?

Maybe Morgause didn't realize. Maybe it was a mistake in her own training, something someone else had gotten wrong years ago when her sister was still learning. Blindly believing, herself.

"I think," Merlin added shyly, reaching out to touch her elbow, to regain her attention. "I think that Arthur and I were approaching something like an understanding, for me to use my magic to open portals and send back various creatures who've gotten into your kingdom to cause trouble – and earn my freedom in return."

She was captivated by his gaze, surprised and maybe a bit overwhelmed by his proposal. That he'd offer to help them, and part with them on good terms, rather than wreaking havoc in a desperate escape, or coming to a grudging agreement on the price of a ransom and leaving resentment lingering.

"Only," he added, hitching a bit closer and ducking his head confidentially, "I think maybe last night has Arthur reconsidering magic. Allowing it, negotiating for it. But maybe, if he listens to you, you could… talk him back around? At least to the point of discussing it with me, again?"

Warmth blossomed in the center of her chest. She knew Morgause would have her push for something in return, but there was something about his asking her for help, his assumption of her influence with Prince Arthur, that was flattering.

She agreed, but instead of saying anything, she extended her hand to touch his cheek – slightly rough rather than smooth-shaven – and leaned forward in her chair to bring her lips to his for the second time.

Surprise flared in his eyes, and he tried to turn away – but her hand held him in place.

Then, for a moment, he simply held very still, and allowed her to mold her lips across and around his – this time soft and uncertain, and tiny thrills of excitement coasted on the currents in her veins.

And _then_ , he responded. Not the decisive, commanding way he'd kissed her first, but the kind, sweet sense that he'd finished their contact with there in his cell, his body flush and hard against her, trapping and dominating but then allowing freedom when she demanded it.

It felt like he was indulging her curiosity, rather than relinquishing control, or encouraging. She didn't mind, she was loving what it was doing to her stomach and her pulse…

But he slowed, and pulled back.

For a moment before she opened her eyes again, she decided that kissing – like _that_ – was almost as good as magic. Which reminded her…

He wore a troubled look when her eyes flew open to meet his again. He said hoarsely, "What was that for?"

She immediately decided to do it again at the first opportunity. "Maybe I'm keeping my options open," she said archly, inviting him to return the confidence, if he had considered Morgause's help in removing the necklace.

He shook his head, protesting, "I'm not an option for you."

She wasn't concerned about pursuing that right now. The more important thing was, "Will you teach me some magic?"

He blinked, taken off-guard, and sat back in his chair. "Something for practical use, you mean? Like what?"

"Something defensive." It had bothered her more than a bit, him insinuating that Morgause had put her in danger, asking her to play the inside role without teaching her how to defend herself with magic, if she were to be caught.

"You know, if you don't use magic, they can't accuse you of being a magic-user," he said dryly.

She gave him a look that felt like a glare, but which she tried to shift toward pleading, and he sighed.

"Well… quite a bit of defensive magic can also be used to attack, which I won't give you, so… _Aweardian-me_. That's a passive shield that remains on your person about a full day, and prevents any serious harm from befalling you physically. Deflects weapons of every sort, protects you against fire or water or falling… I use it when I'm outside my fortress as a matter of course, you can renew it at the same time every day, like when you go to bed or get up."

"Are you sure it's that effective?" she asked, reaching – and then pointing to his arm when he drew back from her touch.

He made an impatient sound. "It wore off. And with this necklace on, it's uncomfortable and difficult to do again. If I were you, I'd practice alone in my room – you'll feel it when you get it right. Always better to keep your feelings calm to cast magic – control them rather than letting them control you."

At least in that he seemed to agree with Morgause. "How do you spell that?" she said, dipping the quill he'd discarded to scribe the words at the bottom of the parchment he'd used to demonstrate the various circular realms.

She'd just finished the last letter when a rustle of movement alerted them both, and Merlin stood to block her from the view of the person who emerged from the central aisle of the library, between the two rows of enormous shelves. She flattened the parchment twice and tucked it into her sleeve, standing even as Merlin reassured her by speaking the name of the person who'd interrupted with their arrival.

"Gwen?"

"Oh – hello." Her maid sounded distracted, but not suspicious to find them here. "Your Highness – my lady. I didn't mean to intrude."

Merlin moved forward, and Morgana felt a pang of dissatisfaction that _couldn't_ be jealousy. "Just Merlin. Anything we can help you with?"

"Um…" Morgana moved around the other side of the table, to see Gwen drifting sideways into the opposite row of shelves, arms crossed over the golden bodice that topped her blue-green dress, and one hand raised to put a finger thoughtfully over her lips. "Gaius sent me for a book. The Bestiary of Phylum of Cambria? And Geoffrey said… there it is!"

Morgana followed Merlin, following Gwen's finger pointing upwards to a shelf out of anyone's reach. The top shelf, and cobwebby all the way up.

"I'll get it," Merlin volunteered.

"Stand on a chair," Morgana advised, but he was already clutching at an eye-level shelf, balancing precariously on the lower edges that the rows of books left clear, lifting his boot to a higher section –

His foot appeared to break the shelf. He clung, and before Morgana decide whether to try to help him or to jump clear of his fall, the whole section of wall spun to the side and inwards-

Leaving her and Gwen staring at a blank stretch of library wall, appearing as the same light-gray stonework.

 **A/N: The spell Merlin gives Morgana is basically, 'ward me'. Also, some lines from ep.2.8 "Sins of the Father".**

 **Sorry this is a bit late, again, but the chapter got** _ **way too**_ **long. So this one, I did split – which means the next chapter is nearly finished, and shouldn't take more than a week to post…**


	17. Secrets in the Library

**Chapter 17: Secrets in the Library**

 _Morgana and Gwen stared at a blank stretch of library wall, appearing as the same light-gray stonework._

"What just…" Gwen began, surprised.

"Hello!" They could hear Merlin's voice, muffled behind the wall.

Morgana looked down, but there was no indication that the floor was part of the piece of wall that pivoted, though there were faint scratches in the stone. Very old, and filled with dust – unused for many years, she thought.

Rumble-grind, and the section turned around again, presenting them with the original bookshelf, tomes and scrolls trembling as it locked into place again.

"Merlin? Are you all right?" Gwen called.

"…Want to come over?…" He _sounded_ all right.

Gwen looked at her, brow wrinkling and jaw setting to convey her uncertainty. It was dusty, cobwebby – but secret. Morgana wanted to know. Gathering her green silk close around her legs, she stepped up onto the bookshelf, careful about the section that depressed to cause the revolution.

"Coming?" she said playfully to Gwen over her shoulder. Gwen's round face took on a determined look, and she pushed the toes of her shoes onto a lower shelf, clinging like Morgana was, before stepping on the lever that worked the mechanism.

Morgana had one moment to worry if the wall was going to scrape them off – it didn't – and they were in a smallish chamber, dusty and cobwebby and still. Merlin stood a pace or two away, his back to them to survey the contents of the room, hands on his hips.

It reminded her of the vaults, if no one had cleaned the king's treasures for a couple of decades. Bookshelves like those that lined the library's walls and made a maze of the interior space, another to the side that supported a variety of vessels too coated in dust to be identified or differentiated except by shape. Papers all over the floor like someone had left the room after fruitlessly searching for something, and never came back. There was a large chest in one corner, a life-size stone statue of a goat behind an indecipherable coat of arms in another, and an octagonal wooden cask in the middle of the floor.

"I had no idea this existed," she said. There were no windows, nothing to alert an external glance to its presence.

Merlin moved to the bookshelf, glancing it over – then reaching to pick up a large square tome, picking off the sticky cobwebs. He opened the covers, and turned a page – and breathed a word she recognized only as being of the language of magic.

He wasn't supposed to do magic – the necklace – but nothing happened.

"What?" Gwen squeaked.

Merlin turned to them, eyes alight and smile quirked. "It's a book of magic. Spells – healing spells, or at least this one is."

Morgana's heart swelled into her throat. She coveted the thing – she feared it. Gwen's hand was wrapped around her forearm, but she couldn't guess what her maid might be thinking.

Whatever he saw in their faces, Merlin's smile never faltered. "Do you want to see?" he asked, stepping toward them, offering the open book on his palm.

Oh, yes. But they were interrupted; Merlin's foot knocked the wooden cask on the floor, and it rocked –

It _grumbled_ , and something on the inside knocked, as on a door for entrance. Or exit.

"Oh, dear," Gwen blurted, tightening her grip and wrinkling the green silk of Morgana's sleeve – but also reached out for a handful of Merlin's sleeve, shrinking back like she would if she saw a rat or a snake.

Merlin had frozen in place, but the look on his face was interest, not startled fright. Morgana swallowed, determined to imitate him.

The knocking increased, along with the volume and rate of grumbling, and it rocked like something was trying to turn it over from the inside.

"Something's alive in there," Morgana said uncertainly, half-expecting to be laughed at for the impossibility of such a thing. What did she know about magic? Maybe the cask was enchanted somehow…

Merlin gently detached Gwen's grip and stepped back, crouching to examine the cask. It was formed of eight panels of wood, with a lid on hinges of thick leather straps, bolted to the cask. Merlin tipped it upright – two extra leather lengths formed handles on the lid. And the lock seemed to be encased somehow inside a square of metal. Perhaps even fitted after the cask was closed. "I think you're right, Morgana."

"Does Geoffrey know about this place?" Gwen said, casting an uneasy glance about them again, and making no move as Morgana dared to step closer to Merlin and the strange cask.

"It's his library," Morgana said.

"But the dust and spider-webs… I don't think anyone's been in here for _years_."

"Which means," Merlin said quietly, focusing on Morgana, "that whatever living creature is in here, is magic. Many of them have the ability to… hibernate, sort of. If they're deprived of food and water some of them can still last for years and years. Many magical things can't be killed by ordinary means."

Morgana instantly thought of the Knights of Medhir.

"At least it's not _big_ ," Gwen said faintly.

Morgana felt the same urge she'd experienced when first discussing the idea of Merlin with her sister. A hostage with magic, unnaturally restrained. _If we freed him, might he not be able to help us…_

"We have to release it," she said.

"Better not," Merlin returned immediately. "Not without knowing what it is. Not without being able to send it where it belongs." He bounced up from his crouch. "Maybe Geoffrey will know what it is – or Gaius. We can tell Arthur about it-"

"No, don't," Morgana said immediately, and he frowned at her. Gwen wore the uncertain expression that said she was ready to be persuaded and instructed. "What if he wants to kill it? The knights always try that first. What if this container is like-" she grasped wildly at ideas – "a refuge, a shelter, a hiding-place for it? A home, even. Don't tell Arthur yet – not til we know more."

He looked past her at the cylinder; she could tell he was beginning to relent.

"Don't tell anyone," she added, and then he met her eyes, understanding she was saying, _Don't tell your guests._ Of course his loyalty was to his queen first, but – that would greatly complicate things, if his queen chose to act on the information, somehow.

He considered, then shrugged acquiescence. "I have to check in with Gaius about my arm, anyway," he said. "I'll ask him about it, then."

"Do we just leave it here?" Gwen asked, jumping as it bumped and grumbled, again.

"It's been fine so far," Morgana said. "And if we stay here too long, someone will wonder where we are, and come looking."

"Let's go," Merlin agreed, gesturing for the two of them to return to the section of bookcase that had pivoted to bring them to the hidden room. He cast a last longing look around – Morgana felt an echo of the same greedy curiosity – and as they crowded close to the shelves, lifted his boot to press the section that swung them back into the library.

Morgana almost snorted at how similar the two chambers were, as if everyone should find the section of wall obviously hiding another room. She was reminded how they'd rescued the druid boy from his prison, turning him free in the woods to rejoin his own people. It was a giddy surge of anticipated and righteous accomplishment – not quite the same as when Morgause had sent her to be _rescued_ and return to Camelot, but…

It was the first time since then, she felt like she knew what was right to do. And she wanted to do it.

"Gwen? Is something wrong? What is taking so…" Gaius shuffled into view, and stopped abruptly to see the three of them standing in front of the shelf.

Merlin held out his hand, and Morgana was surprised to see a book in it. "It was high," he said. "Gwen couldn't reach."

"Ah," the old physician said, accepting it. "Good morning, my lady. If I'm not being presumptuous, might I retain Gwen's services this morning? I have a number of errands I can't trust just anyone to accomplish properly."

"Of course," Morgana said, folding her hands together and feeling the parchment spell Merlin had given her tucked in her sleeve. Alone in her chamber, she could practice. "Take all the time you need."

"I'll go with you," Merlin offered. "You said you wanted a look at my arm again today?"

"It should be cleaned, and perhaps left open awhile," Gaius agreed, turning and leading them toward the library door.

Geoffrey was bent over his desk, as usual. Sir Leon leaning casually in the doorway, stretching himself alert as they came into view. To the other side, Queen Annis and Hunith stood apart, in quiet but intent conversation with each other. Merlin gave them a glance and his step faltered slightly, but the queen made a gesture Morgana read only in the reaction of the adopted prince, as he continued on his way to the door, following the physician.

But, to Morgana's surprise, Annis turned to face her. "Lady Morgana," the older woman said smoothly. "If you're otherwise unoccupied, I would appreciate an opportunity for a private conversation."

Merlin paused; the others didn't, as Leon held the door open, so he followed, and Leon let the door close behind the four of them.

What could Morgana say? _No, I'm going to practice magic_?

"Of course, Your Majesty," she said politely – wondering, worrying, what the queen could possibly want to speak to her about. "Would you like to go somewhere more comfortable?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…... …..*…..

Annis' conversation with Geoffrey was succinct and sufficient, though not necessarily rewarding. The records were there, of the times and events of the year of Arthur's birth, but they were not going to be opened to a foreigner without dispensation from the king. Which she didn't and wasn't going to have.

However, he did know what she was referring to. _Nimueh_ was a recognized name, though Geoffrey was too loyal to repeat a word of his own unrecorded memories.

Hunith was still quietly plying needle in the light from the window. Annis caught sight of Leon and remembered that the mystifying Lady Morgana had asked for a private conversation with Merlin – so she went looking for the two.

Movement caught her attention and she halted short of an open space, watching through the gap of an open free-standing set of shelves to see Morgana and Merlin seated at a table together, their heads quite close. Merlin with his back to Annis, and Morgana so absorbed in the black-haired prince that she didn't notice Annis.

And a look came into the young lady's eyes that surprised Annis because she recognized it – any woman would, but maybe Merlin himself didn't.

Morgana reached to cup Merlin's face and leaned forward to kiss him.

Well. What a development.

Annis didn't feel self-conscious at all, in watching. She'd witnessed several interludes between her adopted son and the baker's assistant in Beckon Cove, some that they were aware of and some not, and she was satisfied as to the honor of her prince and the virtue of the maid.

But Morgana seemed very different from Freya. Proud and self-assured and comfortable in silks and jewels, commanding and demanding, and Annis wanted to see how Merlin responded.

He twitched slightly as if startled, or initially reacted to draw away – but he didn't, fully, and the kiss continued. Although, his hands stayed in his lap and he didn't so much as shift in his seat toward rising, and it was clearly him who finally retreated first.

So he allowed, but didn't encourage. What was that about?

Annis heard other voices, then, behind her and faint, and retreated herself back to the entrance of the library, to find that Gaius and Gwen had arrived in search of a book. Annis greeted Gaius deliberately, as Geoffrey gave the maid directions to the tome. Hunith was still in place in the window-seat, though she'd looked up to watch the new arrivals, and decide to stay in place rather than join them.

"I trust you had a peaceful night," Annis said to Gaius, stepping out of earshot; he followed her to answer the question, as she'd intended.

"Our wounded from the battle are recovering apace," Gaius answered. "There were no emergencies to interrupt our sleep, thank heaven. You slept well also, I trust?"

"I would sleep better tonight if you could answer some questions for me," Annis returned. The old man folded his hands and raised an eyebrow. "Merlin's father. I want to know what you know of him, especially if there is any bearing on his future. A magic-user, you said. Hunith has let Merlin believe his father dead – killed on an unspecified trip from which he otherwise would have returned. But she _hopes_ , and she sometimes looks for him, when there are visitors to Beckon Cove."

Gaius blinked, and straightened, and that was all. Annis smiled.

"That may very well be the undying but illogical hope of a woman in love, who won't call herself a widow without undeniable proof. But I want to know what you know – or what you even suspect. Do you have an idea of the man's probability of survival, or whereabouts?"

The old man considered, taking a deep quiet breath and letting it out slowly. "I had decided to tell Hunith and Merlin nothing, while the boy is under the stress of being held in a kingdom doubly hostile to his kind – prince of an enemy, and a sorcerer. I intended to write a letter, after his safe return home…"

"His father lives?" Annis guessed, with a private pang – but surely Merlin was too old to be taken from them, too committed to training and expectations to abandon them himself. "Or you know something of significance of his heritage?"

"Both." Gaius turned to mark Hunith, Geoffrey, and Sir Leon with a single glance – all out of hearing range. "I will trust you to tell him – to tell them – when the time is right. If not, I will find a way to make the journey to Caerleon myself. Now that he is a man…"

"Tell me," Annis said, sternly eager to know, that she might have some control over the worst of possible repercussions, by anticipating and planning for them.

"His name was Balinor," Gaius said.

Annis nodded; that wasn't news.

"He was a dragonlord."

Now _that_ … oh, hells. Annis stood very still, and absorbed the information. Were there any dragons left – yes possibly somewhere. Merlin was of course the oldest son of his father – so if the man still lived, it affected him only distantly, now. But someday, at the moment of Balinor's passing, Merlin would inherit another great responsibility.

He could handle it. But he should be prepared. And if he was told, he'd immediately want to find the man…

Annis shook her head. "Hunith never said-"

"Perhaps he didn't tell her," Gaius offered. "If he wasn't aware that she had conceived a son to him."

"You are right to wait til he's free of Camelot," she said. "He will not be happy to know that such information has been kept from him, though."

Gaius sighed. "Balinor made me swear not to tell Hunith where he'd gone – he didn't want her tempted to try to join or contact him, it would have been dangerous. And Hunith made me swear not to tell Balinor about Merlin if so happened Balinor survived Uther's hunt and contacted me – she didn't want Balinor turned in and captured after all, trying to return to them."

"And then they came to Beckon Cove," Annis said, sympathy wringing her heart for her trusted friend and the dear mother of their unique prince. To be separated from the love of her life for nearly two decades without knowing if he was alive, doing her best to raise their son and regretting every moment lost to his father… "Is there any direction I may give Merlin along with this news, to guide the search he will undoubtedly insist upon making?"

"Uther kept a dragon chained beneath this citadel," Gaius told her, softly and with another glance to see that they were still private. "A year and a half ago, it was set free – only a dragonlord could have accomplished that, and persuaded the beast to escape without pursuing vengeance against its captor."

"So Balinor went with the dragon," Annis said.

"To the northern mountains, if the reports are correct."

Annis shook her head again, incredulous over the comparisons and parallels – father and son, dragon and lord… and how would Thurston react to learn how much more his heir was potentially capable of? Merlin's druidic training seemed to keep him both humble and careful about the uses of his power – that would probably hold true for his control over dragon-kind, actual or potential. But if Thurston was unreasonable and demanded more…

They'd have to work it out between them, Annis supposed.

"If that is all, Your Majesty?" Gaius said tactfully. "I should see what's become of my assistant, and be about my day's work."

"Of course," Annis said, and turned from the old physician's shuffling to see that Hunith had lowered her needle and fabric to her lap and was watching them – still too far to overhear.

Still deciding, Annis moved to join her; Hunith stood and gathered her sewing to meet Annis. Of course she deserved to know – but she would want to tell Merlin right away. And even if she agreed to wait, would her disquiet make Merlin question its cause and press til he discovered it?

"I suppose," Annis said to her, "you'd like to speak with the physician about Balinor."

"Was that what you asked him about?" Hunith said, quietly breathless.

"I wondered if there was anything in Gaius' knowledge of his father that would affect Merlin's status as crown prince of Caerleon," Annis said.

"And?" Hunith was slightly confused, expectant. Annis guessed that her friend's young lover had never confessed the extent of his powers. Lack of time or inclination, or a protective instinct, maybe.

"There may be, but any concern will complicate what he's doing here, and distract him," Annis said honestly. "And that's the last thing he needs. All in time, Hunith, I promise…"

"I meant only to reminisce a little," Hunith said, smiling though her eyes were suspiciously bright. "I don't have many memories, and they dim over the years, you know."

Sharing memories would be good, Annis thought, for both Hunith and Gaius – who would be careful to avoid any mention of dragons. She smiled, reaching to squeeze Hunith's hand. "Of course – go to him anytime, and don't mind me," she said.

Hunith seemed relieved, but then both of them were distracted when Gaius returned, followed by Gwen and Merlin and Morgana. There was some excitement among the three young people, but since it seemed that both Gwen and Merlin had intent and purpose to remain in the old physician's company as he left the library, Annis focused on the Lady.

"Lady Morgana," she spoke to gain the younger woman's attention. "If you're otherwise unoccupied, I would appreciate an opportunity for a private conversation."

Morgana looked disconcerted, glancing after the departing company, but she let Sir Leon close the door without comment, and turned to Annis and Hunith. "Of course, Your Majesty. Would you like to go somewhere more comfortable?"

"Perhaps the sitting room in our quarters," Annis proposed. Knowing full well she didn't intend for the three of them to sit and face each other awkwardly over the topic she wanted to discuss with the young Lady. "Hunith, could you find someone to take a message to the kitchens? If it's not too much trouble, we could have our noon meal together there."

Hunith nodded agreement, tucking her basket over her elbow and holding the library door open for them. Annis glanced back to thank Geoffrey, but he was snoring in his seat behind the desk. Once outside the library, Hunith whisked out of sight, leaving Annis and Morgana to stroll more slowly.

"Camelot is very beautiful," Annis observed. "Blessed with riches." Morgana murmured appreciativeness, and Annis added, to put them on verbal footing more frank than courtly, "Caerleon is decidedly not. It is a hard place for hard workers, with small and thankless return. There are those who embrace the challenge, however."

"Your Majesty is one?" Morgana guessed.

Annis smiled, gazing down the light and polished corridor. "I am. It is not an easy kingdom to rule – respect is earned and loyalty won and love an unexpected windfall. It is the same for marriage."

She glanced sideways; Morgana looked puzzled, still.

"You remind me of myself, at your age," Annis told her. "And that is meant to be a compliment. I was determined not to marry where I felt no respect, and I was determined I could never feel respect for another man like I felt for my father."

Morgana stopped walking. She wasn't smiling, and there was something stricken in her eyes. Morgana of Trevena, and Annis had heard of her father. A good man, Gorlois; a noble man.

"I lost him when I was sixteen," Annis told her. "Weeks, only, after he'd agreed to an offer for my hand in marriage. It was sudden for me, though I think he knew, and therefore made arrangements for me… but I was still furious with him, then and later."

"Why are you telling me this?" Morgana asked, and it was the most genuine tone Annis had yet heard from her. Little girl dressing up and pretending to be a great lady, sweeping up and down and acting like she thought she was meant to, without the quiet confidence or depth of courage to be herself.

"My husband was – and is – a challenge," Annis answered, obliquely. "I didn't know it at the time, but he was exactly what I wanted and needed." And Thurston felt the same, though it would take yanking all his fingernails out to get him to _say_ so.

"But-" Morgana began.

"Merlin is not for you," Annis said gently. And Morgana's pale complexion flushed rosily.

"Why would you say… that. What do you… mean…"

"I am a queen and a mother and getting closer every day to being an old woman," Annis said, deciding not to reveal the fact that she'd seen their kiss. "That's a helluva lot of intuition. You're attracted to Merlin-"

Morgana's chin came up. "He's younger than I am by at least a year, if not more."

Annis snorted. "As if that makes a difference." She tucked her arm through the younger lady's resistant elbow and drew her back into their stroll toward their guest chambers.

"So you think I could not be queen of Caerleon," Morgana challenged her.

"I think you could be queen of anywhere if you put your mind to it," Annis answered candidly. "But if there is no love in your life, it's hardly worth it, and I should know."

"My… a friend of mine," Morgana said hesitantly, relaxing a bit. "Seems to feel that men are inept and untrustworthy. In positions of power, meant to be used and manipulated."

Annis sighed. "And if you believe she is right, you are destined to be very lonely. I believe, you could find love very meaningful and satisfying, as long as you remember – you're not perfect and neither is he, and neither of you ever will be."

Morgana hummed, the sound first thoughtful – then sarcastic. "But I can't love your prince."

"You don't love our prince," Annis told her. "I said, I think you're attracted to him – that's different. And he might find you attractive, too, but-"

"But he's in love with a maid," Morgana very nearly spat. "Perhaps I should renounce my title and begin to serve, then I should have no end of suitors."

"You don't want suitors," Annis advised her with calm amusement. Because surely, with her beauty and position, if she showed the first interest in a union of marriage, the knights and lords' sons would line up for her favor. "You want a lover. You'll know him when you find him, I think, you simply need to accept and anticipate, if that's what you want. Keep your eyes open, but don't indulge your other senses."

They came to a corner and turned, slowly and not smoothly, but Morgana made no move to distance herself from Annis' touch, and she thought of how this young woman had to grow up in a royal court without any mother-figure, herself.

"Freya has been with us more than two years," Annis remarked. "She was born a druid, and fell prey to a heinous curse at an age when most girls are beginning to think about choosing that one lover, and stepping out with boys they find attractive, to find the one. She came to us in a bounty hunter's cage having killed in the clutches of her curse."

Morgana's free hand rose to cover her heart, though she said nothing.

"Merlin and his tutor were consumed for nearly a fortnight, searching and testing and discarding and arguing and searching again. He grew visibly thinner, and wasn't sleeping well, but was determined to save her. And he did. The curse was broken, and Beckon Cove became her home. Although, it was nearly a year before he looked at her – and started looking for her when he had the time, and stammering nervously when he talked to her or about her…"

Morgana snorted derisively.

And that was also why she and Merlin would not match – Annis' chosen prince had a sweet vulnerability to his heart that someone like Morgana would not admire or value. She would need a man who was confident and emotionally robust, who didn't question himself – maybe because she was already doing too much of that herself, already. Over twenty years old, a noble orphan and unmarried – fulfilling a duty of hostess of Camelot that would belong to someone else the moment Arthur was betrothed – and then she would be jealous. If Morgana was not meant to be Camelot's queen – Annis thought if this was the case, Uther would not have delayed years longer than necessary to bring it to pass – she could probably not remain happily…

"Sometimes, it isn't about who you are, who you were, or who you become," Annis said. Here was the hall, and there the door to the chamber where they would meet Hunith again – the mother of the boy they discussed, and who Morgana had kissed. "It's about, what you've been through together. Merlin's magic and Freya's spirit are… intertwined. Mixed, mingled – grown apart, and back together. He could be a wonderful friend for you – and please consider a wide-open invitation to visit Caerleon anytime, no matter the political climate – but romance, I believe, would make you both unhappy, in the end."

Morgana halted by the open doorway; Annis could hear the sounds of Hunith moving about, inside.

"Thank you very much for speaking to me so openly," Morgana said haltingly, as if she were unused to verbal sincerity, maybe especially with strangers. "You've given me much to consider." And the way she said it, made Annis sure that she would; she wasn't simply speaking empty words for the sake of politeness.

"Now," Annis said, reaching to push the door fully open and shepherd the young lady inside. "We'll obey Arthur's request to leave last night's conversation alone, but I'm sure we can find pertinent matters of interest to discuss that you won't consider treasonous?"

Morgana's smile was surprisingly sweet, when it was genuine. "I'm sure we can," she said, entering the room with new eagerness.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana dawdled along the path to the clearing, under the moonlight. Arthur's patrols had encountered no lingering enemies, so there was no one but the remaining Knights to fear.

They made her uneasy, but it was odd that she'd mentally put them in the same thought as _enemies_. Inherently evil, though, if she was going to listen to Merlin.

Merlin, who'd given her a practical and useful spell. She had practiced it that afternoon, and she had felt it work, as he promised her – it was like slipping her lacy robe over her nightgown. The barest sensation of an extra layer – and whether it affected her emotions or the other way around, she felt calmer, tonight. Safer. Maybe that was why she delayed meeting with Morgause.

Or maybe her reluctance came from the whole world of possibilities offered to her by the queen of Caerleon. Not necessarily in painting marriage and love as a valid goal for a woman like her – and Morgana couldn't help admire her, and hope she was right, that they were alike in any way – but in offering her what amounted to sanctuary in another kingdom, though Annis hadn't phrased or intended it like that, being still unaware of her magic. But she could visit anytime – and maybe in a headlong flight from Uther's men – and they'd welcome her magic, rather than giving her Camelot's treatment. Or giving her back to Camelot.

Not that she'd want to make Caerleon her home permanently – or try to find a barbarian warrior as a possibility for a mate. Merlin was surely an exception, being adopted – not stupid, nor full of hate for Camelot. But Morgause and Cenred, her Knights and his mercenaries, weren't her only options for protection.

Maybe that was why her steps were slow. Maybe considering Annis' offer was a betrayal of her sister. But she felt _free_ , not guilty.

And, concerning Annis' other suggestion… ambivalent. Part of her wanted to kiss Merlin again, and enjoy those feelings – and part of her acknowledged, it would probably complicate things, if he was irrevocably attached to his maid Freya. And Morgana didn't want to _marry_ him, after all. She didn't want to rule Caerleon someday – leader of the hairy and unwashed. She wasn't even sure she believed that Merlin's morals and standards were correct.

Was that why her feet wanted to linger along the moonlit path. Because she'd realized she didn't fully trust Morgause's methods, anymore? Was it disloyal to question? Why was her sister so sure they had nothing to worry about, using magic that others considered dark or evil? How did Morgause know she was right, and the rest were wrong?

"Morgana."

She startled to recognize that she'd reached the clearing and Morgause stood expectant before her. A slight tingle across her skin made her turn her head to see a blacker-than-night shadow – Knight – and realize that Merlin's spell was protecting her from her sister's guards.

Morgana said without thinking, "A necromantic ritual made those things, didn't it?"

Morgause gave a twitch of surprise. "Why do you ask?"

Morgana wanted to retort, _Why don't you ever just answer my questions?_ Instead she said, "They can't die. Their natural lives were lived hundreds of years ago, and they gave them to a sorceress, who did – something. Reversing death or cheating death – that's necromancy, isn't it? How is that not dark or evil?"

"They serve the bidding of the one whose magic woke them," Morgause said tartly. "They guard and protect me – how is that bad? Now – I know you didn't come here to speak of my Knights. What news from the citadel?"

Morgana took a deep breath and let it out. Maybe it was all right since Morgause hadn't created the Knights, she only used and directed them. But – what about killing the rowan tree to raise an army of skeletons? Was that only advanced levitation, no different than making other objects move? just so happened to be bones? And the mandrake…

"Uther hasn't come out of his chambers, though they say he's shown some recovery." And she should probably visit him herself one of these days; people would wonder, if she didn't. "Queen Annis from Caerleon is here to see Merlin before they begin to negotiate for his release. She told Arthur that magic was used to conceive him, and he's refused to discuss magic at all since then."

Morgause made a thoughtful noise. "And the hostage prince with magic?"

"We are on… amicable terms." They hadn't argued, and he'd kissed her back after she'd initiated contact. And he hadn't told anyone about her magic.

"He's an ally, then?" Morgause demanded eagerly.

"I wouldn't put it like that," Morgana hedged. "He would help me as long as he agreed with what I was doing. But I think I can trust him to protect me, no matter what." Really, no matter what? Well, she wasn't planning on murdering anyone or stealing anything, so… yes, probably Merlin would protect her otherwise.

"Druids," Morgause spat. "So very religious about their magic. So very cowardly."

"Merlin isn't-" Morgana started, but jumped when her sister focused intensity on her again suddenly, eyes blazing in her white face in the dim moonlight.

"Merlin isn't convincing you to become a druid too, is he?" she spat, all fire and venom.

Morgana's throat hurt and her chest was tight. The answer wasn't _yes_ , but if it was, would her sister hate and reject her? Just as she warned that Morgana's other friends would do if they heard her say yes to another question – _do you have magic?..._ She didn't understand. Shouldn't family accept and love, even if they didn't agree? Shouldn't a friend support, even if they didn't understand? It all seemed so complicated when right and wrong couldn't be agreed upon.

"I was going to say," she said, trying to think faster than she needed to speak. "That Merlin… isn't… the only magical person in the citadel."

Morgause went absolutely still, tension vibrating as she pierced Morgana – it felt like – with the focus in her gaze. "What do you mean."

So Morgana told her about the secret room in the library, the strange wooden cask which likely contained some creature of magic. Morgause hung on her every word and, like when she was telling her sister about Merlin for the first time, it made Morgana feel closer to being her sister's equal. To know things Morgause didn't. To realize she had a choice, in the whole situation, and not necessarily to carry out her sister's will as Morgause would have done it, if she could be in Morgana's place.

" _Onluc scrin_ ," Morgause said, when Morgana had finished – nearly startling the feeling and warmth of equality out of her.

"What?" Morgana said.

"Free it," Morgause said. "Let no one see you enter the library, and open the cask to free it. A hinged lid, you said? You can conceal yourself, then, and open it from a short distance."

"And then what?" Morgana said, feeling her forehead twist in a frown. "We don't even know what it is. Merlin asked Gaius, but with no more to go on than _size_ …"

"It doesn't matter what's in it," Morgause said. "Free it, and we can create another opportunity-"

"How?" Morgana demanded. She couldn't help thinking of both the afanc and the griffon. "It might be dangerous. People could get hurt, or killed." People _were_ hurt and killed, both, when Cenred's army attacked… was that a reminder from her conscience? "Or if it isn't dangerous, Arthur or the knights might hurt it, trying to catch it again. Or the king could order it killed. We can't just carelessly-" _If there's anything worse than someone using dark magic, it's someone using dark magic carelessly or unwittingly_ …

She stopped, disconcerted. Morgause breathed heavily through her nostrils, clearly annoyed – but Morgana didn't retreat or retract.

Morgause finally said, "Open it then to see what's inside. If it's intelligent, you can talk to it. Find out what it's capable of, and whether it could help us against Uther in any way."

Because that would go as smoothly as saying, as when it had been Merlin that Morgause ordered her to bring to alliance. But she couldn't deny, that was her first impulse, also. Whatever it was, who knew how long it had been trapped? And magic wasn't meant to be kept contained, was it? _Not without knowing what it is. Not without being able to send it where it belongs…_

Morgana sighed with irritation. "Very well. What was the spell to unlock the cask, again?"

Morgause enunciated clearly, " _Onluc scrin_."

"Would that work for any lock?" Morgana said curiously.

"Why?" Morgause responded, sounding suspicious.

"Just… curiosity." Because Merlin answered so promptly and thoroughly, and Morgause seemed to take any questions as personal doubt – which was why Morgana instinctively shied from it. She didn't want her sister to think she doubted her… she didn't want to _doubt_ her sister, she wanted to _understand_. "You've told me, the magic the druids labeled dark, isn't evil. It's only powerful, and complicated, and therefore intimidating."

Morgause sniffed and moved her head in a way that clearly said, impatience. "That's what they say, to keep the younger, newer users from trying magic beyond their abilities. I suppose it is true that some can be dangerous if mishandled."

"Like a medicine that's fatal if you take too much," Morgana guessed.

"Exactly." Morgause smiled proudly.

It felt like a warm embrace, and Morgana shook her head, trying to resist feelings in order to be logical, like Morgause had taught her. "What about the purpose it's used for? Merlin says it's dangerous to use magic selfishly, in fear or anger or revenge – that such is a corruptive use."

Morgause took another sharply-inhaled breath through her nostrils, and Morgana felt a pang of regret and apprehension for pushing. And pushed right back against that pang – didn't she have a right to question, to discover for herself, to choose with all the facts, and open eyes?

"He has a point." Morgause said each word with deliberate control. "But that is not how we are using magic. We are not making ourselves rich, or comfortable. We are not afraid of Uther or his laws – it is justice that we seek, for all the innocents he's killed – that he will keep killing, if he's left on the throne. We make sacrifices so that in the future, others won't have to."

Morgana decided she was tired of going between them, carrying one's argument to the other. "I wonder if Merlin would come with me, one of these nights. You could have a look at the Endel-Easnes, and discuss these philosophies with him." The better for Morgana to judge, which held more truth.

Morgause sighed, and shifted her weight again. "Morgana," she said sternly, and her tone was a clear negative. But then, just as quickly, she gripped Morgana's arms. "Sister. I can promise you this. When Uther is removed from the throne of Camelot, and Arthur agrees to rescind the Ban, nothing would please me more than to sit in conversation with your Prince Merlin. I will listen to what he has to say, and give his opinion weight in my thoughts. Anything to give you clarity of mind and purpose. That can be dangerous for both of us, at this delicate stage of our endeavors."

That was probably true. Morgana shouldn't doubt her sister, shouldn't listen to someone trying to prove her wrong. It was a relief to know, when this was all over, that Morgause might listen to Merlin – or convince him to listen to her, more likely – just as Morgana could hope to convince Gwen and even Arthur, to accept not only her magic, but what she'd had to do for the sake of the whole kingdom.

"Do be careful, especially around Prince Arthur," Morgause said, tightening her fingers and leaning close to press her cheek to Morgana's – it felt bony and abrupt. "I can't lose you. By myself… it would be so much harder to succeed in bringing down the Pendragons."

"Bringing Uther off his throne, you mean," Morgana said, chilled and confused. That wasn't what Morgause usually said to her in farewell. _I can't lose you_ … Which _you_ did she mean – her sister, or her spy?

"Of course," Morgause said smoothly. "As long as you believe that Arthur can and will change, that is our goal."

Morgana would not allow herself to believe differently. There was no plan beyond, a changed Arthur on the throne. "He can, and will."

At least that was something Merlin believed, also.

"Good night, sister," Moraguse said, giving her a little push as she released her, as if to start her on her way back to Camelot. "Good luck – I will eagerly await news of your success."

Morgana turned and quickened her steps, out of the wood toward Camelot. Now she needed to figure out a way to get into the library and open the cask, without alerting anyone's suspicions.

Maybe she should do it immediately, tonight. Before dawn, before anyone saw her – and while the library was still otherwise deserted…

 **A/N: Spell used from ep.3.3 "Goblin's Gold".**

 **Sorry no Arthur in this chapter… I promise to begin the next one with Arthur &Merlin…**


	18. Scope

**Chapter 18: Scope**

 _scope, n. range of responsibility or possibility for action._

Merlin's dinner tray was delivered to Arthur's chamber an hour after the sun had set, by Morgana's maid Gwen. He heard her speaking to the guard at the door – not Sir Leon, but another trusted knight, one of the patrol that captured him at Stonedown; he recognized the face but didn't remember the name.

She smiled at him, propped sideways in the window casement, as she pushed past the door, leaving it ajar, and set his tray on Arthur's table. He studied it immediately – mutton, bread, old vegetables and new berries – simple fare, and clearly for one.

"So Arthur is still avoiding me," he said, not really a guess.

Gwen answered, "Arthur is still avoiding everyone." She sighed, but her eyes were amused.

He nodded. Pendragon had arrived in Gaius' chambers in a black, sullen mood, and Merlin had not protested Leon removing him. But then, they hadn't seen him in the afternoon, and he knew that the ladies – of Caerleon and Camelot – had dined alone in their quarters.

"Why are you here?" he asked curiously, wondering if perhaps the other servants of Uther's citadel were too intimidated to deliver a meal-tray to him.

"Morgana released me early tonight," she said, misunderstanding. "She said she didn't need any more help retiring. But Elyan will be working late, he's busy since the battle, so I decided to help out downstairs – they're busy too – before I left the citadel for the night."

He didn't want to think of Morgana. The memories of her were too intimate, by his own fault, and got in the way of thinking about Freya. And he wanted to think about Freya, he missed her so much it felt like a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. And he'd already mucked up their reunion, if not their relationship, already.

"I heard what was said," Gwen added, "about magic, and Arthur's parents before he was born." She left the tray but moved around the room rather than retreating through the chamber door.

He watched for a moment and recognized the pattern – a maidservant looking to tidy up and finish chores. And he'd never admit, he'd gotten bored enough to do them himself, and without even trying to use magic. He unfolded himself from the window and crossed to the tray, finding everything cooled and congealed and decided, he wasn't in any great hurry to eat it.

"You have to understand," Gwen added, coming back from the far chamber and pausing by Arthur's writing desk, "we've all been taught that magic is categorically evil, all our lives. And what we've seen of that, seems to be true."

"I do understand," Merlin told her, leaning back against the table. He crossed his arms over his chest and his feet at the ankle. "But your king shouldn't decide that arbitrarily, or from one hurtful experience. Maybe he was ignorant of the results of the magic he asked for, but then he's done his son – his heir, the prince – a great disservice in keeping him absolutely ignorant of magic. I was taught very clearly the right and wrong of magic – and it isn't correct to say, all of it is evil. I think that's why Arthur's struggling – because some part of him senses the truth."

Gwen nodded. "And for a man who spends so much time resisting his father and disagreeing with him, Arthur really wants Uther to be right and noble and… worthy."

It was probably also true, Merlin mused, that Morgana viewed her sister the same way. But the thought of the Lady flipped his stomach with confusing reactions, and he didn't want to think about her or examine them too closely.

"I think," he said slowly, "that every crown prince must feel so. That their example is perfect, and all they need do is emulate perfectly, and they will be as successful. Or at least, not to blame when things go wrong. But kings are just men, and men make mistakes, and it's – frightening, honestly, to think of diverting from the policy of one's predecessor."

Gwen smiled at him. "I hope Arthur quits avoiding you soon – you would be so good for him…"

Merlin felt his face warm, and dropped his eyes from hers, disconcerted at the sentiment. Because he felt there were things he might do differently and pattern on Arthur, too – the knights respected him, and obeyed his orders without question.

"Sire, may I – ask a favor of you?" she added, lacing her fingers together, before squeezing and twisting them.

"Just Merlin," he reminded her. "And of course, anytime."

Instead of answering immediately, she stepped behind Arthur's desk and opened a drawer, pulling out something that turned out to be his own book of magic, confiscated when he was captured. She laid it on Arthur's desktop, and opened the front cover, even as Merlin moved forward. He remembered that Arthur had told Gaius where to find it – _in my desk drawer, in my room_ – but had decided not to go snooping, himself. But it was still here, rather than reduced to ash and disposed of on a rubbish heap.

Arthur _kept_ it.

"I can read," Gwen said, turning one page, then another. "But not this language. Could you tell me what some of these spells are for?"

An odd curiosity, especially given her reaction to the other magic book in the library's secret room. But if that was because she thought Morgana would expect her to be wary of such a book, it meant Morgana had hidden her own opinions on the matter very well from her friend.

"Here in the front it's mostly elemental spells," he said. "For water, for fire, for wind. The book is organized by the type of spell." He turned half a dozen pages. "Then there are spells for healing, for controlling animals, for locks, for illusions. Nothing dark or evil, though any magic can be dangerous if used improperly."

"I see," Gwen said thoughtfully, watching the pages. He withdrew his hand and she reached to turn more tentatively – possibly studying the illuminations. "I heard you used magic in the battle, to aid Arthur."

For a moment he thought she meant, she'd heard it from Morgana, and was surprised – then he realized, Morgana would not have spoken of the events in the crypts to anyone, to open herself up to questions. Gwen would have heard it from her brother Elyan, then.

"Yes." He flipped back several pages. "This one, actually. It temporarily charges the weapon with magic. And the magic is what killed – ah, your brother told you of the Knights of Medhir? Now, that's dark magic, and I'll fight against that for anyone, any day."

"Good," she said, her fingers finding the cover to close the book again. "When we found that other book in the library's secret room, it made me wonder."

"Wonder what?" he asked. She didn't put the book away again; he hoped she wouldn't, it would ease the boredom at least, if Arthur didn't return soon.

"Whether we could trust you so close to Arthur while he sleeps." Gwen lifted her eyes to Merlin's and gave him a demure smile – but there was steel there, too. And something else.

"You two are very close," he observed neutrally.

She shrugged. "I've been Morgana's maid since she was nine. And Arthur was the only other child of rank here; we all grew up together, though they didn't get along well til our late teens. And this last year when Morgana was gone – yes, I would admit the prince and I have gotten closer."

Not as close as she would like, Merlin guessed – but probably Gwen was not one for a tumble and a kiss goodbye, any more than he'd do that to Freya. Gwen was canny enough to know what real commitment to Arthur meant.

"And Morgana's not to be Arthur's queen," he said, just to check. Arthur had said as much, on their ride back to Camelot's citadel.

"No," Gwen said decisively. "He's had a couple of false alarms – enchantments, actually."

Merlin snorted. Now, if anything was enough to set someone against magic, it was a love spell gone awry. "And Morgana? She's beautiful and impetuous. She must have a whole string of suitors to leap to do her bidding."

Gwen's expression turned dubious. "I suppose she would if she wanted that. But she's never been even slightly interested in pursuing a relationship with somebody. At least that I know of… I had it in mind that she might have spent the last year with someone inappropriate, but I don't have any proof, and I'd never bring her reputation into question…"

Merlin didn't know what to say to that. He'd assumed that she'd acted so blatantly seductive according to her sister's plans, to begin with – and when she'd kissed him in the library, she'd immediately asked him for a favor, to teach her a spell or two. In spite of his suspicion that her first kiss was in his cell, if it wasn't habitual for her to tease men into compliance, what had she initiated intimacy in the library? Would she assume that she could keep doing it, whenever and because she felt like it? And why did she feel like it, if it wasn't to persuade him in some way?

He shouldn't have done what he did in the cell, even if it was to open her eyes to the careless manipulation of her sister in sending her to him. He shouldn't have let himself respond this morning in the library. If he had to say to her, enough, no more – and offended her… She might not listen to another word he said. Embrace her sister's values thoroughly, and bring some other odd bit of black magic into Camelot…

"Your dinner isn't exactly hot anymore," Gwen mentioned, moving past him toward the door. "But you must be hungry – I'll leave you to it."

"Thanks, Gwen," he said. "Have a good night. Say hello to Elyan for me."

She nodded, smiling, as she moved half out of sight through the doorway. And added, before finally departing, "And good luck with Arthur, when you see him again."

He held his tongue on wishing her the same. Sighed to be alone again, and plumped down at the table to do his duty by the meal.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur found it nearly impossible to sleep, that night, though he left his return to his chamber til after the moon was out and bright, and his sorcerer-in-custody was silent in the antechamber.

His whole body hurt, muscles throbbing dully, legacy of the hours he'd spent on the training field. Tending his knights – and ignoring the rest of his duties. His skin ached from the sun, on his cheekbones and nose and the backs of his hands. Pain in the hollow of his shoulder echoed his pulse where once a sorceress had stabbed him from across the room.

It was the ache on the inside that was causing him restlessness. He tossed his covers aside, rolling to his back to gaze at the bed-canopy above him in the dim light of a single shaded candle in the adjoining chamber.

His conversation with his father – Uther still so childlike in his illness his words didn't reveal much except that more secrets did lie behind them. Arthur might have preferred his father to be himself – strong and imperious, well and sovereign, but for the suspicion that Uther would refuse him the truth.

His conversation with Gaius – not much better. Gaius admitted Arthur had a right to know; his eyes reacted as Uther had to the name of the sorceress, but he refused to speak on the subject. He'd sworn an oath to his king and could not break it. Which meant, there was a secret to be kept, important enough that Uther required an oath to seal the lips of a faithful friend against his own son.

He couldn't help but think, Annis was right, at least to some extent. At best his father was a hypocrite, having done something shameful, if not downright illegal. At worst…

Arthur tossed himself over to his belly, letting one arm swing free over the edge of the bed. Did it change things?

The law banned all magic, and such legislation was within his father's right as king to pass. But the rights of his position didn't make him _right_ in a moral sense. And following without question, obedience without understanding, couldn't excuse Arthur if both of them were _wrong_ , by accident or by design.

Was he still to uphold a law he didn't consider wholly just? What happened when he was king someday and someone disagreed with his laws? He supposed he'd rather have someone argue to his face – that made him think of Merlin – than sneak behind his back to disobey and then force him to deal with the instances of law-breaking…

But no one ever argued to Uther's face, in Arthur's memory – except he himself, and Morgana, but they had no authority of their own to require the king to listen. Possibly he discounted their opinions as a matter of course because of their age and relationship to himself – that as their father-figure, as well as their king, of course he knew best. Only Gaius offered contrary opinions in council, and he did it so delicately that it was barely noticeable. Uther rarely changed his mind, and then it must be based in undeniable fact, not intuition or belief or feelings. And never about magic.

Arthur squirmed around, getting his feet over the side of the bed and sitting up. He wanted to be like his father – unassailably certain of his own righteousness.

He didn't want to be like his father. Morgana would argue with him; Gaius would argue with him, and tell him when he was wrong. Merlin would argue, but he wasn't a son of Camelot. And he knew what they would say, in this case – Morgana and Gaius, and Gwen and Leon. They would have him allow for the possibility of innocent magic, and free little druid boys, and bargain for a release Merlin otherwise didn't expect his king to buy.

Exhaling, he let his head hang down between his shoulders, feeling the pull of strained muscles. And what if _they_ were wrong…

He pushed to his feet, heading for a pitcher of fresh well-water on the side-table, his bare feet silent over fur rugs and cool stone. And that was why he heard the noise – otherwise it would have been too quiet, too low for his ears to catch, across the room in his bed and flouncing about sleeplessly.

It was the sort of grunt someone might make if they were elbowed in the ribs unexpectedly. But it was followed by a gasp – another grunt, then a sustained whine that sounded piteous and young, and he finally pinpointed the origin.

Sounds of helpless distress coming from the antechamber.

Arthur grimaced to himself and hesitated. _It wasn't a problem, Sire_ , Leon had told him, when he'd finally returned to his chamber after eating dinner in the same room as his father, if not exactly _with_ him, and watching the old-looking king fall asleep. _His Highness is not bad company._

It wasn't discourteous at all, Arthur told himself, avoiding the sorcerer-prince all day. Annis' visit was to see Merlin, not the Pendragons, and none of them would thank him for loitering about and stilting their conversation.

A nightmare, he supposed. He should go back to bed himself and pretend he'd never heard the younger prince, tomorrow morning, if Merlin even remembered that he'd dreamed at all. Except that… he was responsible for Merlin. His host – there was no servant or guard to bring him anything he needed, and he couldn't even leave the room. He couldn't even get a breath of fresh air or a dry nightshirt if he'd been sweating, without coming into Arthur's chamber – and as rude as Merlin could be by daylight, he doubted the younger prince would presume to take what he fancied by night.

Another whimper.

Arthur rolled his eyes, and went for the candle. Leaving it just outside the doorway to the antechamber, he leaned in to glance around before making himself known.

It was a tiny room, less than half the size of the dungeon-cell. Arthur was shocked; he'd never been in here or through here before. There was only a cot like that in Gaius' quarters for patients, without a pillow and what Arthur recognized as his cloak for a blanket, and a pair of iron hooks hammered into the mortar of the wall for extra clothing – trousers and Merlin's indigo shirt, his boots set beneath.

Merlin was on his side, tangled in the blanket to show bare feet and his shirtless state – the one arm trapped beneath him was his injured one, Arthur thought, maybe a cause for unconscious pain to trouble his dreams. His face was mashed downward into the thin mattress of the cot; he was breathing hard, and sweat on his skin caught the candlelight.

Trapped in the nightmare, then. Awkwardness threatened to overwhelm Arthur, and when Merlin's body heaved with another pleading moan-sob, he couldn't take it any longer.

Stepping forward, he raised his own bare foot to the cot frame and gave it a hard shove.

" _Hey_."

With Merlin's weight atop it, the bed didn't shift very far, but it was enough to jar him out of the dream. Not immediately or thoroughly – Merlin kicked and scrabbled without recognition to get away from him. Landing on his back, lurching up on the elbow of his injured arm – which collapsed, and he squirmed to brace himself on the wall and claw his way upright.

"Oh hells – oh, hells…"

Arthur took a step back, lifting his hands to show them empty and unthreatening, when Merlin focused enough in the indirect candlelight to see him, rather than just a looming shadow.

The other prince panted – gulped – released reactive tension in a gusty sigh. "Arthur. Sorry – dreaming – hells, that was _real_."

"You want to talk about it?" Arthur said, more curious about the answer than the dream. He had no wish to discuss his private fears or doubts.

Merlin hitched himself around, putting his back to the wall, legs sprawled out and dangling over the other edge of the cot. He yanked the blanket off the rest of the cot, bundling it up against his side. His hand trembled as he lifted it to his forehead – to hide his eyes or pinch pain at his temples, maybe both.

"It was… Evorwick," he said finally, hoarsely. "Only, Freya was there."

"Freya is the girl you love?" Arthur ventured, when he paused. The sweetheart mentioned by the other Caerleon warrior, when they met.

"Freya is the maid I love." There was an ironic note in Merlin's voice that made Arthur instantly think of Gwen – but the younger man didn't even look toward Arthur. "She wasn't the only one – there was another… girl I know, there. I was fighting to get to them, but each step forward took me further away – you know how it is in dreams. And more and more villagers between us, and then it was… them wearing Caerleon colors, and… slaughtering."

Arthur couldn't think of anything to say. Nothing to tease, nothing to remind his enemy of his guilt, accuse or rebuke. Merlin had never said anything approaching _I'm_ _sorry_ for the deaths and damage caused by his raids; instead he joked and exaggerated Caerleon's barbarity. He sank down to sitting on a corner of the cot, and Merlin shifted his hand to eye him, giving a single chuckle that sounded anything but mirthful.

"I tried to talk my king out of giving me the order," Merlin told him, with stark and rueful honesty. "I knew it was wrong – but it's the Caerleon way, to take by force. Nothing else earns their respect and loyalty and obedience. And the king wouldn't listen to me, so I _had_ to obey. Didn't I?"

Arthur's mouth was dry, his heart thudding and perspiration pricking at his palms. He focused on the wall across the small chamber, rather than on his fellow prince. _My first command…_ Well did he remember his own, though he'd tried again and again to forget, to justify it to himself and rid himself of the feelings and memory.

The druid camp, the goal to arrest its leaders and any who performed witnessed magic – but the people panicked and scattered and the knights reacted from self-defensive fear. Arthur remembered the fear – tensing for _danger-pain-death_ for an explosion of fire or a battering ram of wind or a curse of immediate poison, or… something, as when he'd met Merlin. The first sorcerer he'd actually spoken to at length, or gotten to know at all, beyond the fact of magic. Who was being so devastatingly honest here in the small hours of the dark morning, and who, it seemed, was also the only person Arthur had ever met who understood his fears and burdens as a crown prince.

But when you believe your opponent is capable of immediate and merciless cruelty – kill or be killed. Had Merlin felt that, when they stood him at sword-point and demanded the truth, _do you have magic_ …? And he'd given them truth, submitting himself to Arthur's judgment and remaining faithful to his half of the hostage-agreement.

Arthur's knights had taken _kill or be killed_ down to the children, and no one had listened to him. Maybe Merlin's warriors had disregarded his orders, too, in the heat of the moment.

Half of him refused to identify with this young man – enemy, and magic. Half of him _yearned_.

And if magic wasn't evil, and if an enemy could be trusted…

"If I didn't obey," Merlin rambled on, oblivious to Arthur's inner turmoil, "I'd be undermining my king's rule, and I already owe him so much for taking me in and training me. I'll never be like him – and what will happen to Caerleon under my rule, someday? What will happen to the people if there's unrest, if I have to fight my own lords?"

"Merlin," Arthur said, a bit desperately, "shut up. Why are you saying all this?"

"I don't know." Merlin slumped back against the wall – probably cold on his skin, from the way he hugged his arms to his chest. "I just wanted you to know. I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt, when I took Evorwick and Stonedown. I tried to do it without violence or bloodshed… but I failed."

 _I tried to arrest the leaders of that druid camp without violence or bloodshed…_

Arthur sighed in a great gust of breath, and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He couldn't bring himself to condemn Merlin for a mistake he was guilty of, also.

"Stop worrying about the past," he said. "You can't change it. You can only change yourself, in moving forward."

Realization dropped over him like a cool layer of falling snow – cleansing and re-shaping his internal landscape. Maybe he should take his own advice.

"Yeah," Merlin said, relaxing in considering. "Yeah. I shouldn't… tie myself in knots trying to please him. Trying to be him. Because I never will be – I've failed before I even started, then. I should be… true to my own training, teachers, mentors, experiences…"

Arthur kind of wanted to punch him in the teeth. Giving advice right back to him, in trying to figure an honorable way to fulfill his destiny. Challenging, in a way his sarcasm and the bravado couldn't reach.

"And for heaven's sake," Arthur said sardonically, to distance himself from the emotional enormity of the situation, "get some sleep. Philosophy after dinner with plenty of wine – not in the middle of the night, cold sober."

Merlin flashed him a grin. "Speaking of philosophy-"

"No," Arthur said firmly, pushing to his feet and retreating to the antechamber doorway.

"But we never got a chance to talk about-"

"I am not getting into a discussiong with you about magic," Arthur said, exasperated. "At least, not tonight."

"Fair enough." Another smile, and Merlin nodded, turning his attention to straightening out his blanket.

Arthur passed through the doorway, claiming and carrying the candle back toward his chamber. He didn't have to map out his entire reign, decision by decision, in advance. He could make them as they came, evaluating each situation on its own merits.

As for Merlin's situation… he needed sheets and a pillow and another change of clothes. And his own washbasin.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana decided that first light was soon enough to return to the library. In the pearly gray pre-dawn, only the first of the lower townspeople or the last of the night's defenders would be moving about – and none in the corridors she took. As tense with anticipation as she'd been since meeting with her sister in the forest, she didn't sleep well, those few hours, and woke in plenty of time to dress herself in her favorite green silk, and make her way to the library without being seen.

With any luck, she'd be back in her room before Gwen arrived with her breakfast tray.

Geoffrey had reached the age when he napped often in his domain, but he still retreated to his own chambers for the night. The library was deserted and dim when she entered; remembering how the hidden room didn't have windows for even the opalescent light of the main chamber, she paused to light a lantern. No open torches for illumination, here.

It clattered a bit on its iron-ring handle as she stepped up to the bookshelf and toed the lever; the wall spun with a low grind. Belatedly she thought of jamming it halfway so she wouldn't be caught in a closed room with an unknown creature-

 _Thunk_ ; the wall came to an abrupt rest in its new position.

Shadows skittered away from the lantern; Morgana stepped down unsteadily and secured it on a section of open shelf.

Maybe this was not such a good idea. Anything could be in that cask… she shivered and was struck by a sudden and peculiar wish that Merlin was here with her. Then she would feel safe and-

The cask wobbled and grumbled. Morgana jumped, her heart feeling jerky and unpredictable like the shadows. If Merlin was here, he'd argue the impossibility of knowing what was inside before they opened it to see. He would hesitate and caution and judge, just like in the vaults.

The comparison made Morgana feel unsteady on her feet. It wasn't the same at all; maybe it wasn't right to bring false life to bones with the slow drying death of a sacred tree, but this – this was freeing the prisoner. Like rescuing the druid boy from the dungeon, or even helping Merlin himself escape – and she'd do that if he asked her, wouldn't she.

Somehow she knew he wouldn't ask; she ignored that.

And anyway, she had the best of Merlin with her already, didn't she? Feeling virtuous and brilliant, she pronounced the words of the protection spell aloud.

" _Aweardian-me._ "

Magic washed over her warmly and securely, and it was easy to smother doubts. With her back to the revolving shelves, the muscle of her leg jiggling the section that was made to be pressed down through the silk of her dress, she steadied herself, raised her palm, and spoke the incantation her sister had instructed.

" _Onluc scrin_."

The leather strap sprang open from the metal fusing the lock, and the lid flopped back. She could see several inches of angled darkness inside the cask – it looked empty and it wasn't wooden, either. Dark gray like metal…

She was unprepared for the little being that shot up from the depths of the cask to perch two feet and one hand on the rim. Wide amber eyes, cruel-thin black lips – a child-sized frog of a man, green-skinned and striped with black tattoos, half-naked with vast pointed ears pierced with golden rings.

It leered at her and belched a single word.

"Boo!"

She gasped and lurched back, one of the shelves catching her hard across her spine. The little creature cackled and spun, revealing more tattoos across it's bare green back, leaping to the shelf of dusty vessels – cups and flagons and pitchers. Mumbling to itself, it began picking them up and tossing them across the room as if looking for something it wasn't finding.

But, nothing more threatening. Morgana took a deep breath and tried to still the pounding of her heart; it was abrupt and very odd, but nothing she couldn't handle. It occurred to her that she might have wanted to disguise herself somehow, in case it was not going to keep her secret like Merlin had.

"Excuse me," she said, and her voice quavered.

It ignored her, grunting and tossing more clattering-breaking jars and vases.

"I am the Lady Morgana," she said, "sister to the High Priestess Morgause. We are in the citadel of our enemy, Uther Pendragon, and we require-"

The creature made a rude noise, hopping from the shelf and disappearing behind it. There was a thud – more clattering, more grumbling. She ventured forward, til she could see it again behind the shelf. It was waist-deep in a trunk, tossing objects out haphazardly behind it; Morgana had to dodge a small book, and then a boot.

"I beg your pardon," she said, annoyed. "I am trying to negotiate for your assistance in removing a tyrant from the throne…" Inspiration struck her, and she added, whether it was true or not, "The very one who imprisoned you in that cask."

The creature jerked upright, spinning to face her. Morgana flinched, but its attention was entirely focused on the necklace strung between twig-like fingers. The eyes were wide and greedy, the mouth open in avaricious delight. It swung the necklace over its greasy-shiny black hair, and leaped from the trunk back to the shelf – then disappeared.

Morgana almost tripped on a silver goblet, taking an involuntary step back.

A tiny brilliant light like the flame of a candle hovered, zipping first this way then that – then darted for the wall. It slipped out through a crack so small Morgana hadn't even noticed it, either time she'd spun into the room on the bookshelf.

 _Dammit_ , she cursed internally. It had no interest in her, or conversation – whether it understood her, or could speak their language clearly. Whatever it was after, it had no concern for being seen, no apparent fear of re-capture – it was ten times as fast as a glow-bug, and probably clever. It could hide or escape on its own, anytime it wanted to.

And Morgause wasn't even ready to – do whatever she might have tentatively planned. Morgana would have to sneak out today – or tonight, at the latest, and… hope Morgause knew what the little creature was, and how it could possibly serve their purpose. Hadn't they needed Cenred's mercenaries to hold the citadel's defenders at bay, while Uther was incarcerated and Arthur agreed to their demands? How could this little creature do the same? And if it merely fled…

She gave a hard sigh, clenching and unclenching her fists. It was early yet, but if that thing was careless in looking for – whatever it was looking for, the whole citadel might soon be roused. Maybe even the warning bell rung. She needed to get back to her chamber and pretend innocence – especially to Gwen and Merlin.

Two steps toward the door, and she remembered something else. The book of magic Merlin had found, ownerless and unclaimed, dusty and cobwebby and _right there_ – and no one would miss it.

Her fingers itched, and she reached out to take it without another thought.

No one would notice. No one would know. She could hide it in her room and read it and try things, and then she wouldn't have to depend so fully on Morgause – her sister might be happy and proud of her initiative and view her as an equal at last. She could act on her own ideas without waiting hours and hours for Morgause's decision – and she might learn some things without having to pry them out of Merlin, either.

Morgana stepped up onto the shelf and pushed her shoe down on the section that activated the wall to swing her around back to the library.

No sign of the little green frog-man or the tiny bright light. She blew out the candle inside the glass-walled lantern and replaced it.

Her luck held. She left the library and hurried toward her chamber as the first golden light of dawn shot across the sky.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin woke groggy in the morning, from loss of sleep due to nightmares and conversation – but a bit abruptly and incredulous.

 _CRASH – CLANG – RRIIIIIP!_

And a string of panicked obscenity from Arthur.

Repeated, faster and faster, then a yelp that tumbled Merlin right out of his own bed, the narrow cot in the narrow antechamber.

Disoriented, he thought, maybe Arthur's manservant annoyed him unbearably, and a royal fit was being thrown? Along with other various objects around the room, it sounded like.

He snatched his shirt from the wall-hook and tossed it over his head, ignoring the healing-soreness of his injured arm. Fastening his belt by feel and leaving his boots for the moment, he skidded through the doorway – and stopped again, dumbfounded.

Papers fluttered through the air, more scattered across the floor. An idea struck him and he scrutinized the ones nearest, in case they were pages from his magic book – but no; he was relieved on that count at least. One of the chairs had been tipped over against the table – the lid was off the laundry basket in the corner and clothing had been tossed as haphazardly as the papers.

A shield banged down from the wall in the other chamber, and Merlin flinched. Then a low streak of green lurched across the room and under the bed, and he froze in shocked wonder.

Arthur appeared in the archway between chambers, clad in his night-clothes and leaning into a deadly-determined cast of a spear from his left hand-

one of the three spears from a rack beside his wardrobe, and because he carried a sword in his right hand-

Merlin yelped a curse himself and dodged, as the spear missed whatever the green blur was that Arthur had been aiming at, and skittered across the stone floor far too close to Merlin's bare feet for comfort. Arthur straightened from his cast as if surprised to see Merlin – and Merlin glared at him.

"What the hell, Pendragon?" he demanded.

"There's a _thing_ in here!" Arthur responded, unapologetic. He pointed toward his bed, where the blanket hanging crooked over the side rippled. "A living – magic – _thing_!"

Merlin blinked as a tiny man-like creature, thigh-high and green-skinned, backed out from under Arthur's bed, ignoring them completely to drag at a small lock-box. There was a gold chain about the skinny neck, dangling a pendant in the vicinity of the creature's belly.

"You thieving little – _monster_!" Arthur spat, leaping forward and swinging his sword with merciless skill and intent.

"No, don't!" Merlin shouted, raising a hand to stop him, though he couldn't do magic. The creature was obviously not human, so _magic_ , but that didn't mean _monster_ , or dangerous.

The little man whirled and sneered, hopping up in the air – not far enough to evade the prince's sword-swing – and condensed to a tiny golden light.

Arthur's blade whistled through unoccupied air and he overbalanced to one knee, putting his off hand down to catch himself from sprawling. But only for half a second, before he was swinging again, as if expecting the creature to appear behind him, clawing or biting or something. Merlin relaxed slightly to see the incorporeal light hover for a moment – it couldn't be harmed in that form – before zipping back toward the other chamber.

"Damn magic – _thing_!" Arthur panted, gaining his feet and following. "I'll kill it!"

Well, Morgana had been right about that much, at least. Merlin followed him. "I don't think you can…"

"Shut up!" Arthur darted about the room, hunting the creature but warily – behind bed-curtains, in the wardrobe. "This is why magic is banned in Camelot, just see what a bloody mess that creature's made! It's destructive – it's deceitful–"

"I think it's a goblin," Merlin remarked. "Also I think it left your room already."

Arthur slammed the wardrobe door so hard it popped back open, but he was focused on Merlin. And furious. "And what do you know about it?" he demanded. "You had something to do with that – that _thing_? That goblin?"

"Why do you assume that because I'm magic, I'm involved with everything magical that goes on around me?" Merlin retorted. "Gaius had a Bestiary, yesterday – there were drawings that looked like that creature. I've never seen one before, otherwise."

Arthur wasn't quite convinced that it was gone – he kept glancing about as if afraid it was going to leap out at him from somewhere. He kicked through the fur rug on the floor, bent to peer among the legs of the table and remaining chairs, straightened to tilt his head to see inside the flagon and a pair of goblets on the side table. Merlin realized he looked pale, too – shaken.

He growled, "When I catch that thing, I'm going to _obliterate_ it."

"I don't think you can," Merlin repeated, started to feel a bit annoyed, himself.

Arthur threw him a black look. "Watch me."

"If it was a goblin, it wasn't going to hurt you, or anyone. They love gold, he was probably just looking for-" Then the lock-box made sense, too.

"Stealing from the royal treasury is punishable by death," Arthur declared, wrath still simmering. He slammed his sword on the table, turning toward his wardrobe. "This is why I _hate_ magic!"

"Hey!" Merlin objected, temper rising. "Don't blame all of magic for one lost creature acting according to its nature-"

Arthur was speaking over him. "Deceptive, untrustworthy, sneaky and manipulative and _greedy_ -"

"It doesn't even belong here!" Merlin raised his voice. "Sometimes someone opens a portal, maybe even by mistake, and if it stays open-"

"Someone with magic!" Arthur shouted, rounding on him with finger raised, darkly triumphant. "Using sorcery also punishable by death!"

"Or sometimes there isn't a deliberate portal, just a thin spot when worlds collide, and if people like _me_ didn't _use_ magic-" Merlin shouted back- "then you'd be stuck chasing a speck of light all over your kingdom like a royal idiot!"

Arthur snorted several breaths through flared nostrils like a bull.

Merlin took a quieter breath to calm himself, and in the silence and chaos of the room, felt a ridiculous urge to giggle. Probably if he woke to find a goblin ransacking his chamber, he'd be mad enough to roast it on a spit, himself. He couldn't hold his glare; the corners of his mouth pulled at his control, and laughter wanted to spill out of his eyes.

Whatever Arthur saw in his expression, he drew back momentarily – looked about the room – and sighed, his shoulders slumping in surrender of his fury.

"If you could take this off," Merlin suggested, touching the delicate silver links at his unlaced collar, "I could have your rooms cleaned again in a snap of my fingers."

Arthur's mouth twisted like he was resisting a smile, too. He cast another look around like he was imagining such a use of magic. "It is always _something_ here. Though I guess I'd rather wake to find a goblin in my chamber than the Knights of Medhir."

"I think I know where it came from," Merlin volunteered carefully. As to _how_ , though… "In the library, there was this odd container – it must be able to trap and hold the goblin. If I'm right…"

"You found this container and just opened it?" Arthur demanded incredulously. He yanked clothing from the wardrobe and crossed the room – checking behind the changing screen before stepping out of sight. "Where in the library? Why didn't Geoffrey report it?"

"I didn't open it, I don't know how it got out," Merlin corrected with exasperation. He headed back to the antechamber for his boots, speaking over his shoulder so Arthur could still hear him. "I can show you – I don't think Geoffrey knew."

"So yesterday you had Gaius researching a Bestiary for what could be in it," Arthur said from behind the screen. "Why didn't _you_ report it?"

Merlin made a noise of impatience, seated on the end of the cot to pull on his first boot. "Thought you'd want to kill it."

If Arthur responded to that, Merlin didn't hear it. "It isn't dangerous, though? Just focused on finding gold?"

Merlin was grudgingly impressed by how quickly Arthur could calm to logic, in the situation. He stamped on his other boot to get it comfortable on his foot as he returned to Arthur's chamber, and the other prince emerged from behind the changing screen in dark trousers, a deep blue shirt and a hide vest left hanging open.

"That's what the book said," Merlin told him.

Arthur strode to the chamber door, yanking it open. "We have to get that container first, then, if it can trap the goblin. Guard!"

At the doorway, Merlin saw a guard with a conical helmet, nose-guard masking his identity, lean into view around the corner. "Have Gaius sent to my father. Tell him, goblin. Understand?"

"And someone sent to my queen with the same message," Merlin added – with enough of a question in his voice so he wasn't giving Arthur's guard orders.

Arthur nodded to make his suggestion a command, and the man disappeared again. The prince headed in the opposite direction, and Merlin lengthened his stride to keep up.

"We'll go this way to the library," Arthur told him over his shoulder. "By way of Morgana's room – if it's looking for gold, it may go after her jewelry. If it took me by surprise, think what a fright it might give her – and Gwen."

"Um. Yes," Merlin murmured, trying to fight suspicions.

Arthur shot him a narrow look, but there was little time for questioning; Merlin was glad of that and followed, hoping he was wrong.

 **A/N: More chaos to come! Also, spell and one word of dialogue from ep.3.3 "Goblin's** **Gold".**


	19. Surrender Goblin

**Chapter 19: Surrender Goblin**

Arthur strode down the corridor, mentally preparing himself to battle – so to speak – a foe of magic. He'd done this before, assess reports of the enemy's strengths and weaknesses, formulate a plan for action based on what they knew, and at least two contingencies.

But this time was different. This time it wasn't Leon or Carles or Munt or one of the others treading just behind and beside, anxious and looking to him for leadership and decision and answers.

This time he had an ally who evidently knew more than he did about their quarry, who might be expected to be able to counteract the unexpected that always seemed to become probable when dealing with magic. And even though – if Merlin was right – this time there might not be casualties before they subdued and captured the threat, he felt confident, himself.

With Merlin at his back. Enemy, and magic.

Was it all about perception? And familiarity? If he knew more sorcerers – his father said to know one was to know them all, but Merlin disproved that quite thoroughly – would he trust more sorcerers? Or at least, he'd know which of them he could trust.

"Are there many magic-users in your kingdom?" Arthur asked, as they rounded the corner of the arch. On the other side was the little stair that led to Morgana's quarters.

"There are a few I know of. None in Beckon Cove, though. Someday I want to introduce more organization… It's not an issue that's terribly important to my king, but-"

Arthur interrupted him unintentionally, surprised. "Morgana!"

She was just at the bottom of the stair, and when Arthur said her name, startled so badly she almost fell, trying to turn around with one foot on the first step. For a moment he thought she'd already seen the goblin and was on edge because of it – and then he recognized the look in her wide green eyes.

Guilt.

"What are you doing?" he asked, instead of the _don't-be-frightened-but_ speech he'd intended to give. "It's early. Where have you…"

"Arthur," she said, drawing herself up like she was trying to match him in height. It was the way she prepared for verbal battles, and it alerted his suspicions further. "It is early – I wasn't sleeping well, so I thought I'd… walk a bit." Her eyes darted past him to Merlin, and narrowed like she was trying to communicate something to him without Arthur noticing.

"My chambers are in a wreck this morning," Arthur said.

"You should be speaking to your manservant, then," she retorted immediately. She had a large dusty tome tucked under her arm; it was slipping but she was trying to ignore it.

Oh, hells.

"There was a small green creature, and he was after the gold in my lockbox, evidently," Arthur continued.

She acted surprised. She _acted_ surprised. "Why, what do you-"

"Merlin says it came from a cask in the library," Arthur spoke over whatever excuse or deflection she'd been about to present, and she gave Merlin another glare. "I see you've already been to the library this morning. And I suppose you were there yesterday when this idiot found the container to begin with-"

"Hey!" Merlin tried to object.

"And he says he has no idea how it got out, but I gather he's not being completely truthful, because he's protecting someone." Arthur's words came faster and louder, and he swore at her. Mildly, but she flinched. "How could you be so stupid!"

"Magic isn't meant to be trapped and caged, it's meant to be free!" she snapped.

"Not all of it!" Arthur growled. "Have you forgotten the afanc? The griffon? Lives were lost!"

"Calm down," Merlin said. "I already told you, it isn't dangerous-"

Arthur rounded on him. "Magic is inherently dangerous in Camelot, or have _you_ forgotten _that_? If we can't find this thing quickly and put it away again-" Morgana opened her mouth, and he didn't allow the interruption. "And _then_ decide what to do with it, people will start to notice and panic and then it's all alarm bells and accusations and my father ordering arrests and searches and suspect lists, and…"

"Chaos," Merlin finished for him, realization coloring his eyes just a little bit darker.

Morgana bit her lip. He shook his head at her; he couldn't believe she'd forgotten what it was like, here, when obviously magical things happened. She wasn't contrite, though she rarely admitted she could be wrong, something she'd picked up from Uther, he thought.

Then he remembered what Merlin had said about not reporting the container because they thought he'd arbitrarily kill whatever was inside. So trust went both ways.

"I'm sorry you didn't feel like you could come to me," he said stiffly, staring at the wall between them.

A moment passed, in which he was aware that the other two were staring at each other.

Then Morgana said petulantly, "Fine, I'm sorry that I decided to open the container by myself. Satisfied?"

"Not really," Merlin said quietly. "Are you going to put it back? Send it where it belongs?"

Arthur remembered that they'd had this discussion, about sending magical creatures back to their realm of origin; he'd forgotten in the confusion and wake of the battle. A little over a week ago, when Merlin first said, Caerleon wouldn't pay his ransom. He wondered how Annis would react to that opinion.

Morgana gave him another glare, then almost lost her hold on the book in whirling to flounce up the stair. She caught it before it dropped, and scooped it up to hug against her chest, her back to them as she stumbled up two more steps.

"Wait a minute," Arthur said after her. She stopped, but didn't turn. "If… the goblin is in your quarters, just… stay out of its way? Otherwise, just stay inside. We'll get the cask, and then… find it and put it back inside," he finished lamely. Because that plan left _much_ to be desired in the way of specificity, and if they'd been alone, he felt sure that Merlin would have pointed that out to him. Sarcastically.

It was a moment before she spoke, and because she still didn't turn, he couldn't tell how to take her words by her tone alone. "Good luck, then."

She stomped up the remaining stairs, let herself into her chambers, and shut the door behind her. He sighed, resolving to speak to her after this situation was resolved – remembering that he'd resolved something similar for after the battle. It was always something in Camelot, it seemed, but Morgana's wellbeing was a priority, after her missing year, and he wouldn't just assume that she was fine, when that couldn't possibly be the truth.

Maybe that was what prompted her to release a prisoner without stopping to consider the consequences.

"I think her heart is in the right place," Merlin offered, his brows down.

"Her heart, maybe, but her head? Come on." Arthur headed across the landing, jogging down the main stairway.

"She doesn't have a trustworthy guide in the ways of magic," Merlin said, hopping down behind him. "Neither did you, really."

"Gaius is trustworthy," Arthur countered, taking the turn at the base of the stair that led to the library. "He knows as much about magic as we need. He's how you knew this was a goblin, right?"

"We were looking at possibilities based on the size of the container. But – I'm going to guess that he's not been allowed to educate the two of you in magic, has he?"

"Teach us magic?" Arthur paused with his hand on the door of the library to give the younger prince an incredulous look.

Merlin grimaced with impatience for Arthur's obtuseness. "Not to _do_ it. I mean _about_ it. The laws and limits and what's required to protect yourself and your people."

Regret clenched like a fist in Arthur's gut. Hadn't he felt the very same, at times in the past – and tried to dismiss the wish as treasonous?

"Come on," he repeated roughly, turning his back on Merlin. "Show me where the container is. We have work to do – and I haven't even had my breakfast."

Merlin slipped past him into the library as he opened the door – and maybe he snickered.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen rarely dared to sit on the edge of Morgana's bed. As a lady's maid, she rarely sat in Morgana's chambers or presence at all – and not since Morgana had been found. A certain sense of camaraderie had been missing, replaced with stiff guardedness, no matter what Morgana said, or how she acted.

But this… Gwen curled the strip of parchment around her fingers, pulling it gently through, as if the motion could somehow explain the words written in the ink that had smudged to her skin.

 _Aweardian-me…_

Gwen jumped when the door banged open, and lifted her head to see Morgana lean back against the door, a large thick book clutched to her chest, clearly flustered. She didn't speak, and Morgana didn't immediately notice her, and after a moment, the lady pushed away from the door and strode into the room, laying the book emphatically on the table – then noticing the breakfast tray at the other end. Surprised, she glanced up, visually searching her chamber.

"Gwen! I didn't realize…"

Her voice drifted away into uncharacteristic uncertainty; Gwen knew she herself was acting strangely. She didn't jump up and make excuses, bob a curtsy and let herself be dismissed to other duties elsewhere.

Well, she'd changed this year, too. She wasn't just Morgana's maidservant, ever aware at least of the possibility of being discharged from her job completely. Thanks to Gaius, that wasn't a worry for her, anymore.

"When you disappeared last year, they questioned me," Gwen said – not looking at Morgana, but at the strip of parchment. "More than once. They were angry, and sure that I knew more."

Morgana moved around the table to put her body between Gwen and the book, but Gwen had already recognized it from the day before, and the hidden room in the library. "You mean Arthur? It's typical that he would-"

"No," Gwen said, feeling her lips twist as she gave her head a little shake to contradict her mistress for the first time in… a _long_ time. " _Not_ Arthur. He wouldn't. He talked to me for hours, trying to figure out together, what might have happened to you. I said, there was no way you would have left us voluntarily, you would have left a note at least. You wouldn't hurt us so, you wouldn't worry us."

Guilt flashed in Morgana's green eyes, and she lifted her chin, ready to deny and deflect, and it made Gwen's heart ache. If her friend could ever just admit, and apologize…

"I said, only a few days ago, right here, that if you left because you met someone that Uther would consider inappropriate, we would help you. If he was a good man and we trusted him," Gwen continued. "Even if he was _magic_. I'm not stupid, Morgana."

Morgana sank slowly onto one of the chairs at the table, that had been left pushed out.

"The cloaks and dresses you've given to the laundresses yourself? The way your nightmares used to come true, and Gaius wouldn't say _magic_ , but that it was too close to magic to tell Uther or Arthur the truth? That vase, and the curtain set on fire – and then you had those calming exercises he told you to do."

Morgana's hand was white-knuckled, gripping the edge of the table. And Gwen would not cause her friend to experience fear for anything in the world, but it hurt that Morgana hadn't trusted her with this confidence.

"When we talked about attraction, you meant Merlin, didn't you?" Their heads oh-so-close together at the table in the library, as Gwen wandered past in search for the book for Gaius. "Which means you didn't leave here last year for love. You left for magic, didn't you?" Gwen surged to her feet, crossing the rug to thrust the scrap of parchment at Morgana.

"What is that?" Morgana said, unsteadily and then with collected anger. "Where did you find that? Have you been going through my desk drawers?"

"It was on the floor," Gwen retorted, unapologetic. "I was cleaning. That's my job again, since you've been back. And that's _magic_." She fluttered the parchment, then freed a finger to point over Morgana's shoulder at the book on the table. "And _that's_ magic. And you're magic."

"Now, Gwen." Morgana attempted to laugh, and shifted in her seat like she wanted to stand, but Gwen was standing too close. She wasn't meeting Gwen's eyes. "You're being ridiculous, this isn't-"

"Stop it," Gwen said, her heart swelling in her chest. "Just, stop. It doesn't matter one whit to me if you've got magic aside from the dreams, and I can get over being worried sick this last year wondering if you were alive, or in pain, or what. But just _tell me_." Tears threatened to choke out Gwen's voice, and she retreated a step, trying to control herself but not hide her emotion from her friend. "Tell me."

Morgana's eyes were wide, her mouth dropped open slightly. And she was flawlessly pale and beautiful and perfect, dress silk and hair in silky waves – but in that moment, she was young and uncertain and _real_.

"It doesn't… matter to you?" she said in a low voice. "If I have magic?"

Gwen wanted to stomp her foot for emphasis. "I like Merlin. Not like… _that_ , but I like Merlin, and the magic doesn't matter. He's a good person and I trust him – you're a good person and I trust you."

Tears glimmered in Morgana's eyes. "Even if I lied to you – I didn't tell you – I left? Even if I've… made mistakes?"

"I forgive you all that," Gwen said, shaking her head reproachfully, and whisking tears away. "And, everyone makes mistakes."

Morgana made a strangled noise, and erupted from the chair, flinging her arms around Gwen. "I was so sure I couldn't tell you, that you wouldn't understand. I was scared to risk it – I'm sorry!"

"Well, don't be scared anymore," Gwen said, squeezing her back and fiercely glad to have her sister home, finally. "Trust me, you know you can."

Morgana nodded against her shoulder and drew back, still teary-eyed but smiling.

"So that's where you went – what you were doing, this year?" Gwen added. "You found someone to teach you magic? The druids?"

"Yes, but not the druids." Morgana hesitated.

"You don't have to tell me," Gwen reassured her. "That's someone else's secret – it's all right."

"Merlin knows," Morgana offered, seeming very vulnerable in her uncertainty and honesty, and Gwen had never loved her so much. She gestured at the parchment still in Gwen's hand. "He wrote that spell for me, actually – it's a shielding. Self-defense against weapons. And fire."

Gwen grimaced at the thought. "Don't worry, we won't let that happen to you. Remember that little druid boy? We can get you out of here if it's absolutely necessary."

Morgana didn't look completely convinced, but _out of here_ , caught Gwen's attention.

Again? She knew she had magic, she'd found someone to teach her – how not to use it, then? Because otherwise…

"Why did you come back here?" Gwen asked, finding herself a bit incredulous. "We all thought you must be dead – though no one knows how long Uther would have kept Arthur looking. He really loves you, the king, maybe that's enough to keep you safe, even if by some accident they found out your secret. He might even let you go back to Trevena, even without a husband to manage the estate, but – oh! Don't you think we should tell Arthur? He seems fine with Merlin, I'm sure he wouldn't mind about you – and then, he's the next king, of course he could change things and maybe even influence Uther-"

"No!" Morgana nearly shouted. "Don't tell anyone, Gwen – _promise_."

Gwen took a breath to calm down. Of course it would be scary enough confessing to one's maidservant, she shouldn't expect too much of Morgana too soon. But there was still-

"Why did you come back?" she repeated, more slowly and calmly.

Morgana bit her lip and sighed, looking away. "I'm not sure I know, anymore."

That cryptic answer was driven right from Gwen's mind by a muffled but rising shriek – lengthy and blood-curdling, even through walls, and terrified.

"What's that?" Gwen said, already moving for the door.

"Arthur said to stay in here," Morgana blurted – so revealingly that Gwen glanced back at her – but without slowing. Morgana sighed again, rolling her eyes. "I didn't go to the library for the book. I went to… open the cask."

Gwen didn't stop in time; her knuckles and toes barked into the door as her brain stopped but her body kept going. "You released whatever was inside? You might've been hurt - Morgana, how could you? What was it?"

Morgana scowled, resisting any hint of wrongdoing as she always did. "Merlin said it wasn't dangerous."

" _That_ sounded like not dangerous to you?" Gwen asked skeptically, indicating the scream, just as another pealed out. It sounded close.

"Merlin and Arthur were going to get the container and trap it again. They'll take care of it," Morgana decided, and before Gwen could rethink the wisdom of such a reaction, she'd given her mistress a look of disapproving impatience. "What? They said to-"

"Well, maybe they need help," Gwen said, wrenching the door open. "Are you coming, or not?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur said incredulously, "How on earth did you find this room, anyway?"

The room was a mess of papers and garments and broken glass and pottery. Merlin knelt over a large octagonal wooden cask, lifting a lid on a leather-strap hinge back into place.

"That section of the shelf that depresses into a lever?" he said, pausing and lifting his head. "I stepped on it by accident."

"You stepped on it," Arthur repeated in mocking disbelief, but there was honesty all over Merlin's face.

"Gwen needed a book from the top shelf." He pointed, and Arthur twisted in place to see that there was a gap on the top shelf of the bookcase that pivoted as a door to this strange hidden room.

He wondered what it had been used for, and if Geoffrey knew of it. The old records-keeper had smiled and nodded as they entered – and because Merlin headed for the east wing without saying anything to Geoffrey, Arthur had followed without a word as well.

"Is that typical of your luck?" he asked idly.

"What?" Merlin wasn't really listening, examining the inside of the cask. "It's lead-lined, you see – probably as a block for the goblin's abilities. Different creatures have different weaknesses like that. I think it has something to do with the realms they originate from, but of course that theory can't be tested."

He looked up at Arthur again, earnest and scholarly, and Arthur couldn't help noting the glimmer of silver at the laces of his indigo shirt, and think of the weakness of this magical creature.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "So we find this thing and what – grab it with our bare hands and stuff it in there?"

"Like catching fireflies at dusk," Merlin said, and there was a note of warmth in his good humor that told Arthur, he was remembering doing just that in his childhood. "Or maybe butterflies in a net?"

He closed the lid and fastened the leather latch, but winced as he stood and lifted it by two handles at the top of the cask. Arthur moved forward without thinking to take the handle from Merlin's injured side, and the younger prince gave him a look of gratitude he didn't feel like he entirely deserved.

"We'll start at my chambers, searching," Arthur decided as they crowded up to the bookshelf and he kicked the lever-shelf to spin them back to the library. "If it leaves that kind of mess in its wake…"

"If it doesn't pay attention to people at all, or hiding," Merlin added, a bit more grimly, "I somehow doubt we'll have trouble finding it."

Geoffrey looked up in polite surprise to see them carrying the heavy cask between them, awkwardly and banging their ankles. Arthur gave him a reassuringly dignified smile, and said, "Thank you, Geoffrey, that will be all."

Once out of the library, they tried to hurry back up the stairs and along the corridors to the royal quarters, and spared no breath for talking. And if the situation hadn't been so dire – as far as haste and secrecy went, if not outright danger – Arthur might have been tempted to laugh himself as breathless as hurrying with their present burden left him. Trying to sneak the thing up to his bedchamber without being seen, in the very early morning, they might have been a pair of lighthearted boys playing a prank.

"How's your arm?" he asked, short on air for speaking as they paused once on a landing to shake out threatening cramps.

"Getting better." Merlin bent over his knees, rib cage heaving in controlled bursts. "Gaius says he can take out the stitches. In a couple of days."

Up one more stair, down one more corridor – that would bring them to Arthur's chamber. But the citadel was home to hundreds, and that damned goblin zipped along faster than they could sprint, it looked like. They could be running all over, all day, and still have nothing to show for it. And everyone would know about the creature, by then…

"Why did it have to be lead?" he grumbled. "Why couldn't it be something like cotton or wool that would block the damn thing?"

Merlin shot him a brightly amused grin. "We could set a trap, maybe? Toss a handful of coins down a hall, wait behind a door…"

Arthur was startled. Not because someone else – especially a barbarian – could have a good idea, but because it was usually up to him to think strategically, while his men nodded and obeyed. It was simultaneously odd and agreeable to find someone who thought the same way.

"Brilliant," Arthur grunted, grabbing the hand-strap again. "Let's go."

Halfway up the stair, they heard the scream. Rising in pitch and _lasting_ , it was sheer terror, and lifted the hairs along Arthur's arms and the back of his neck, because he recognized it. It had been several days since he'd heard it, but… hells. Dammit-

He shifted into taking two stairs at a step, and Merlin panted up behind him.

"Was that Morgana?"

Arthur didn't answer, yanking the sorcerer-prince down a different hall behind him. And around a corner – to see a knight three paces from a recessed doorway, crouched down and examining shaking hands.

"Hey!" Arthur called sharply. He didn't have breath for much else.

The knight looked up as they reached him, not slowing as Arthur arrowed his way to the sounds of distress – short yells, now, random and spontaneous. It was Sir Munt, eyes wide with fear, face and hands covered with massive, pus-swollen sores.

Arthur flinched. He'd seen him only yesterday, and the knight had been fine. Merlin hissed with sympathy – but the sounds coming from the recessed-opened doorway distracted him. Yells – knights or guards – sounding panicky, and the same sort of crashing-breaking-ripping that had characterized his own brief resistance of the goblin intruder in his bedchamber.

Hells. Of all the rooms in the citadel, the goblin had to choose the king's.

Arthur dragged Merlin through the doorway by his grip on the other handle on the lid of the cannister, and halted for a moment to absorb the situation in the chamber.

Uther was braced in his high-backed armchair, red-faced and incoherent, still trying to screech orders. Gaius leaned over him, holding him down with a hand on his chest, a small glass vial in his other hand that was in danger of tipping or spilling or being knocked flying by the king's inarticulate gestures. Gwen crouched at the side of the chair trying to soothe him, or at least to catch his hand out of Gaius' way.

Two knights with swords drawn – Leon and Ectyr – hovered between those three and the impish goblin perched atop the mantle over the hearth, casting weapons from the wall display as well as cups and books. Both men were clearly torn between duty to protect the king and fear of leaving him vulnerable to a wickedly fast and totally unknown enemy in obeying his shrieked and sometimes contradictory orders to engage.

" _Catch it! Kill it! Get it out of here! Get rid of it!"_

Just inside the doorway, flattened against the wall, Morgana turned her head to give Arthur a single look of stunned fright, and maybe a hint of the gravity of the situation, and the responsibility she bore.

Behind him, Merlin let go of the cannister; he heard the door shut and the bolt slide into place even as he let the cask swing up into his other arm, reaching to unlatch the lid again in readiness.

"Right, then!"

Arthur spoke commandingly over every other voice in the room, gaining the attention of those who'd missed their entrance. His focus was on the goblin, however, not whatever relief or reliance that might have otherwise been expressed. He offered the open container.

"You are going back in this box til we work out what to do with you."

The goblin whined its protest, a long nasal sound. It kicked another embossed gold platter down from the corner of the mantle; it had a three-clawed foot, Arthur noticed for the first time. "I have been squished and squashed inside that box for more than fifty years!"

Shock flashed through him – it spoke. And, over fifty years meant it wasn't his father who'd been responsible for trapping the creature, initially… interesting. Disturbing.

"Time to have some fun!" The goblin hopped – Leon and Ectyr flinched – but it condensed to its firefly-form and zipped right between the knights.

It looked to Arthur like it was going to pass Gaius on the far side of his head, but Gaius jolted upright, and Uther writhed anew in his seat, shrieking and pointing again. "It's inside him! It's gone inside him!"

Gwen fell back on her heels; she and both knights looked to Arthur, wildly uncertain.

Inside Gaius?

The old physician turned, grimacing freely and grotesquely – then did something he'd never done before. He _grinned_. "How d'you like my new body? It's a bit old and creaky, but it'll be ever so much fun!"

"If you hurt Gaius –" When Merlin spoke, it was with a stern authority that reminded Arthur, _heir-to-the-Caerleon-throne_. "I will kill you."

The goblin made Gaius wriggle facetiously. "You'll be killing him. You see the problem? I'm him, he's me. We're all jumbled up in here."

Arthur cursed internally. Can't get it out without harming Gaius?

"Kill him, then," Uther blurted, still trying to disappear into the depths of his chair, feet in soft shoes rather than boots lifted right off the floor. He made a single violently impatient gesture, then gripped the arm of the chair again. "What are you waiting for?"

"No, don't," Arthur countermanded the order immediately, though neither knight had moved – waiting for his order, rather than the king's. He shifted to bring Merlin into the corner of his vision, the open container weighing heavily in his arms. "Any more good ideas?"

"I have a single terrible one." Merlin cast him a glance of the sort he'd worn when declaring his intent to enter the battle with Arthur – pale, calm, desperate but resolved.

Arthur twitched, permission or command – _get on with it_ – and Merlin's hand rose.

"Be ready, Arthur."

Fingers open, palm facing Gaius, who leered ridiculously – or rather, the goblin leered with Gaius' face. Then Merlin's fingers began to clench like he was squeezing the air.

All merry mischief twisted off Gaius' face. He lost a shade of color. Stumbled back a step – and lifted a hand to his collar.

"What's he doing?" Ectyr hissed to Leon. "I thought that chain-"

Arthur risked a glance at Merlin – who wasn't breathing. Jaw clenched, eyes blazing gold, cheeks flushing with effort – or something – _It makes the use of my magic both difficult and unpleasant…_

Gaius struggled for air, both hands yanking at the embroidered collar of his robe, and Arthur finally comprehended Merlin's terrible idea. Not to _lose_ Gaius in the process of forcing the parasitic goblin from a dying host, but to kill him slowly enough to revive before it was too late, and in the least-damaging way.

Arthur prowled closer, hefting the container and narrowing concentration to one chance at this. Not to lose it, not to hunt it down again and try a tactic it would be expecting, the second time.

Gaius' eyes glazed and rolled up; his head tipped and his knees buckled. Arthur was aware of Ectyr, sword astoundingly sheathed in the moment of inexplicable danger, preparing to catch and support the old man, and-

There. A tiny but brilliant yellow-orange light shot out of Gaius' ear – and paused for a single instant, as if to check its bearings.

Arthur dove at it, swinging the cask up and around-

It was inside, but the cask was still open; it was fast, but - Determination surged forward with Arthur's other hand, cupping the lid and slamming it into place before he landed heavily on his right side, hip and shoulder. Momentum was everything; he rolled as he slid the straps into place, clicking the locking mechanism with relief.

Gaius slumped to his knees, insensible against Sir Ectyr's support. Merlin sprawled long-limbed on the floor, eyes closed and body unmoving. The girls wore similar expressions of overwhelmed alarm, but Gwen recovered first – glancing at Merlin, turning to check Gaius by feeling for his pulse and raising his eyelids.

"He's breathing," Ectyr said.

"Get help – and a carrier," Arthur ordered Leon, wincing at future bruises as he maneuvered his body toward upright. Leon obeyed with a terse nod, passing Morgana to unbolt and fling open the door. Arthur added shortly to Morgana, "Check Merlin."

The other prince already had a wound healing into a scar from helping Arthur and Camelot when it defied all reason in the situation, constrained only by his own conscience and morals.

Conscience and morals – for a sorcerer?

It would not do at all for Caerleon to suffer further harm or lasting injury, similarly aiding Arthur and Camelot without negotiated benefit to himself.

Morgana nodded, too unsettled to speak, and when the cask bumped and grumbled, Arthur glanced down to reassure himself of the integrity of the lid and lock.

"Magic!" Uther finally managed to gasp out. "He did magic! Magical creature – inside Gaius!"

"It's out, now, Father, and trapped – it's all right," Arthur tried to reassure him.

Uther's eyes were wild, and he gave no sign that he'd heard. "Burn it! Burn it right now – right here!"

"We can't," Arthur tried to say. "The cask is lined with lead on the inside, it won't burn." And in any case, burning alive was the most torturous punishment by death; Arthur didn't judge even the serious mischief of tossing weapons carelessly at people or using their body as a vessel for self-protection worthy of an impromptu pyre.

"You dare disobey!" Uther gaped at him. "Have you been corrupted by magic? You touched it – now you're turning on me, too! Magic is evil, and I want it dead! I want it gone! It's everywhere!"

"Father," Arthur attempted to calm him again – but Gaius was only about half-conscious yet, and couldn't help with reassuring or sedating a king who hadn't fully recovered from an also magically-related illness. Terror and hallucination had marked the king's malady, and Arthur cringed to think that his father must have assumed the goblin another such fantasy-vision, imagining and fearing a relapse – and then it was _real_.

"What is going on?" An imperious voice demanded from the hallway

The door had been left open behind Leon, and Arthur cursed internally again – though no, probably it was impossible to keep Annis from discovering this chaos, anyway – and they'd already informed her by message from Merlin, the source of the issue. The queen of Caerleon was like Morgana that way – she would never cower in a bedchamber waiting to be told the danger was past.

Annis strode into the room, her gaze hard and clear as glass as she stopped to cast an evaluating look around. Hunith flowed around her, sinking immediately to Merlin's side where Morgana hovered uncertainly. The older woman silently checked her son as Gwen had checked Gaius, lifting his shoulders to her lap and his head in the crook of her elbow. She kissed his forehead, though there was no response from him at all.

"The goblin is secured again, Your Majesty," Arthur said. "Thanks to-" He gestured, but Annis didn't need the visual cue to know, _Merlin_. Her gaze dropped, fondly concerned, to her heir.

"He did magic!" Uther blurted, squirming in his chair.

Annis moved to the side to allow more knights to enter the room, the long poles and stretched fabric of a pair of carriers between them – though Gaius would probably be well enough to move slowly on his own in a few more minutes.

"Magic is everywhere!" Uther bellowed out. "I forbid it! I will be obeyed! Burn the creature – burn both of them! Kill the sorcerer!"

Arthur's stomach twisted in dread and embarrassment. They were already in his father's sanctum; he could imagine the terror of being attacked there by the very thing you feared, he'd felt it himself only an hour earlier, but Uther could not be swiftly escorted to privacy from here. And Gaius, the one to quiet and control with experience and expertise, was in no shape to take charge of the panicking king.

"You cannot," Annis said sharply. "Hostage or not, he is heir to the Caerleon throne, and it will be _war_ if-"

Hunith's expression was agonized, Morgana's pinched, Gwen's wrinkled with worry.

Uther pushed himself up out of his chair. "I want you gone!" he demanded, his voice climbing toward shrill. "I demand you leave Camelot immediately! I will order my men to have you put out!"

"Not without assurances of Merlin's safety that I can trust," Annis snapped, drawing herself up.

Ectyr was helping Gaius to rest in a more comfortable position. The old man moved sluggishly, half-aware, but Gwen wasn't paying him full attention, as if the fact or pace of his recovery was less worrisome than this new development. Uther's rudeness bordered on threatening, to the wife of an already-enemy monarch. And this was what Arthur had feared, bringing a magic hostage to the citadel, that his father's hatred would overwhelm his good sense.

Arthur bent to catch Gwen's attention and murmur, "Put something in a cup of wine to calm my father."

She nodded, getting from her knees to her feet, reaching for the vial still held loosely in Gaius' hand, going for the pitcher and a goblet on a table behind Uther's vacated chair. Merlin was still limply unconscious in his mother's arms; Leon and another knight lowered a carrier for him, the others standing awkwardly and uncertainly observant. Morgana had retreated silently to her place by the wall, and Arthur stepped between the two monarchs.

Facing Uther first. "Trust me to handle this, Father," he said, low and firm, but deferential. "The sorcerer will be locked in a cell, the creature in its trap will go to the lowest vault." He turned to glance at Annis. "Your Majesty has seen that your heir is as well as can be expected, under circumstances of his own choosing." Her lips tightened and she looked down again at Merlin, but didn't speak to contradict. "He will be tended but restrained until such time as conditions for release can be agreed upon."

Uther's mouth opened, and Arthur knew he was going to argue _release_.

"Tomorrow," he said, forestalling the king, "we can decide what is to be done about the creature, and any other pertinent matter to be discussed, when the excitement has settled down…"

Gwen appeared at Uther's elbow, encouraging him with the cup of wine, her manner somewhere between servant and physician. Uther accepted it and took a deep swallow without really noticing her or the cup or the wine.

"All right?" Arthur added, very nearly pleading. "Queen Annis can depart this morning, the sorcerer held defenseless under lock and key, and the creature caged in a _very_ small cage."

Uther took another deep draught, muttering, "Magic… dead… gone…"

Arthur faced Annis; Hunith stepped back to her side as Merlin was rolled on the carrier and lifted in readiness. Her eyes remained on her son.

"You swear to me, his life is sacrosanct," Annis said, her voice trembling taut with suppressed emotion. "Else I will bring our army here myself, and leave none alive, and nothing standing."

"I will do my utmost," Arthur promised her, and meant it. His father's words and behavior shocked and disturbed him, especially after three days of Gaius' opinion that he was recovering.

Morgana slipped out the door, followed by the two knights who bore Merlin on the carrier between them, Leon acting as escort, back to Merlin's original cell. Hunith moved as if unwilling to lose the last sight of Merlin, and then Annis, with a troubled backward look, as if trusting Arthur was a necessary evil she wasn't naturally inclined to.

He didn't blame her. But he couldn't risk his father giving orders that knights would follow, manhandling the queen in ways that the king of Caerleon would avenge.

Ectyr brought a chair for Gaius, who was propped up on the heel of one hand, looking haggard and old and not yet capable of speech. Gwen hovered at Uther's elbow as he tipped the cup to drink the last swallows, murmuring respectfully about rest and lying down. Arthur signaled the remaining knight-guard with the face-obscuring nosepiece to pick up the knocking, twitching cannister.

"Let's get this down to the vaults."

Hells… he hadn't even had breakfast, yet.

 **A/N: Sorry this is a bit later than expected. RL hit hard this week… Some dialogue taken from ep.3.3 "Goblin's Gold."**

 **Fun fact: The title is prompted by "Wizard of Oz." The witch's message to the Emerald City – Surrender Dorothy. *winks***


	20. The Son of a Knight of Caerleon

**Chapter 20: The Son of a Knight of Caerleon**

 _(Ten years ago)_

Merlin was too young to realize that most kings should and did hold regular open audiences wherein their common people could approach them with reports and concerns, both great and small. He was aware, in a distant way, that the queen handled much of that detail of her husband's reign, which suited both of them until there was some issue which required sovereign decision.

The king and most of his warriors had been absent from Beckon Cove for about a month, but they were back and that day, the king was observing his warriors training. He was in a foul mood because he was limping for some reason Merlin wasn't informed about, but he'd come to take Merlin away from Alator's classroom, without much explanation – the king never explained himself to anyone, as far as Merlin knew. He'd been hurriedly bundled against the chill, and dogged the king's lame footsteps about the training grounds. He nodded when the king barked observances at him even though he didn't understand and only half-heartedly made an effort to remember.

"No wonder we were defeated," the king growled more than once. And eyed Merlin as if wondering how long it would take him to grow up. "Can't defeat them on an even field. Need some advantage…"

Then the king wheeled round to him and cursed – which wasn't unheard of – and Merlin flinched before realizing that he was looking away over Merlin's head. He turned, trying to lift his eyes to see what upset the king, while still keeping his nose tucked in his scarf – and edging back behind Thurston.

Annis strode toward them, wolf pelt dangling over the shoulders of a black wool dress – her only concession to the cold. Merlin was more interested in the boy that followed her.

He was older and taller, already putting on the muscle of a young man, though his cheeks were smooth. His hair was long and dark, the curls tangled, his clothes of similar quality to Merlin's. He also wore a sword-belt around his hips as if already comfortable with it, even though a corner of his jacket was tucked back to allow him to keep a hand on the hilt to stop the tip dragging on the ground behind him.

"Geart's son," Annis said to her husband without preamble, gesturing to the boy, who bowed his head and shoulders to show respect to the king.

"Why is he here?" the king grumbled to his wife, before grimacing at the boy. "I see you received your father's sword we sent you after the battle."

Merlin caught a hint of what that meant, hearing the hard edge in the king's voice on that word, _battle_ , seeing a shadow of grief and pain and loss pass over the boy's face, before he put on a challenging grin.

"I've come to take my father's place in your army, Sire," he declared.

Merlin felt a mix of pride and envy. This boy was exactly what the king wanted him to be – bold and strong, confident and graceful.

The king snorted dismissively. "My warriors are men, not children."

The boy's nostrils flared, and the grin faltered. "Normally I'd be too proud to beg, but I've a mother and a sister to support. I haven't been raised to any other occupation, and I'm rather too old to apprentice, even if I was so inclined."

The king looked at the queen, who gave him a look in return, of significance that was missed by Merlin. Thurston huffed in annoyed surrender. "One trial, then. Draw that sword and prove you're a man." He twisted to glare around at the warriors nearest them, who'd left off training to watch and listen. "Tythan!"

A man stepped forward, turban wrapping his head and the lower part of his face, sword out and ready. The boy drew his own weapon, and it looked smoothly done to Merlin, who hadn't yet been required to wield one even in practice.

He was on his toes with tension, clasping his fingers together in front of his chest so tightly they hurt. The king nodded, and the swords clashed.

Merlin wished he'd paid better attention in following the king around the training grounds, to know what they were doing as they danced one way, then back, to be able to guess if the boy would hold his own – he was grinning, but Merlin thought his teeth were clenched, and his eyes showed the whites around the brown. Neither wore armor. Swords guarded, or they ducked a swipe, leaning back, twisting about-

The end happened too fast for Merlin to follow. A feint? A pair of quick slices, and the boy's sword left his hand – a hand quickly cupped in the other, as if there was injury in the disarming. Merlin couldn't see blood.

"Are you sure he's Geart's son?" the king sneered, addressing the queen.

"We hadn't finished my training, before you called him off to your damn war," the boy snapped, pale and furious. He was breathing hard, and there was desolation in his expression.

"He is very good for his age, Sire," offered the warrior who'd fought the boy, sounding breathless himself behind the cloth of his turban. "Perhaps one of us could-"

"Nursemaid the baby?" the king suggested sarcastically.

The boy tossed a hand toward Merlin, retorting immediately, "That's what you're doing, isn't it?"

For one heart-stopping moment, everyone looked at Merlin. _Down_ at Merlin, skinny and awkward, and he wanted to disappear – just, not quite enough to _make_ it happen.

"What do you think, Merlin?" Annis said contemplatively. "Should we take orphaned sons of our warriors and feed and clothe and house them for years before they become useful soldiers of our army?" It was the tone she used in their lessons, which gave him no idea of what the right answer was, so he had to guess or think. But in the room where he took lessons with her, and sometimes his mother sat and sewed, they were alone. Not surrounded by the king's warriors.

"And pay them enough to support a family, the while?" the king added in a mocking growl.

It was clear what the king thought. But something about the way the queen held Merlin's gaze, steady and clear, made it easier to forget that, forget what the king would want him to say, and speak what was true.

"I think we should keep him."

The boy was everything the king wanted, except for old enough. Time would fix that for him, but Merlin privately wondered whether anything would ever make _him_ good enough. He looked at the boy, who was looking at him with an expression that mingled contempt and hope. And what would happen to him if the king didn't change his mind?

So Merlin steeled himself to something like the courage of these men, and raised his eyes all the way to the king's, burning and dark under a tangle of hair on his brow, and above the graying bristle of his beard.

"You should keep him," he repeated, hoping no one heard a quaver in his voice.

The king reached out one big hand, fingertips in the hollow of Merlin's left shoulder, thumb against his right. And grasped the entire front of Merlin's shirt, jacket and scarf in his massive grip. His muscles bunched, and Merlin's feet left the ground, shirt pinching his armpits and scarf constricting his throat.

He held on to the king's vambrace with both hands, feeling his eyes widen, and said nothing. The king lifted him til they were almost nose to nose, and _glared_.

Merlin stopped breathing. His mind went blank, and there was nothing for him to say.

Without putting Merlin down, the king turned his glare on the boy. "No," he said, and it sounded so final, Merlin's heart dropped past his dangling boots. He hoped he hadn't inadvertently made things worse for the boy. The king continued, "Your father was a thorn in my foot. Decent fighter, but he never knew when to keep his mouth shut, and you're going to be just like him, aren't you? Now I don't care what you do, trade that sword for an ax and chop wood to sell, or hire yourself out on a fishing boat – but don't come back here unless you can prove you belong with my warriors."

He dropped Merlin so abruptly that he stumbled and lost his balance, but the king's hand was still fisted in his jacket and scarf, and kept him from actually toppling over.

The boy was white with fury. "My father died for you. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Your father is past caring," the king said indifferently. "Why should I?"

"His widow and his children-" the boy tried again.

Merlin looked at the queen. Her eyes were tight and her lips were pinched, but he somehow knew she wouldn't speak to oppose or criticize, not in front of the men.

"One more word," the king snarled, "and I'll have you whipped, boy."

Merlin wondered if it would make a difference to offer the gold coin he'd hidden with his magic, when his mother had agreed to come here from their village. Whether he'd be allowed to.

The boy was trembling, but it wasn't from fear. He opened his mouth and uttered, "Damn you."

The silence was tense; Merlin had never heard anyone speak so to the king.

"Ten lashes," the king grunted, and more than one man moved to grab the boy's shoulder. Merlin decided he hated all of them.

The boy reacted instantly, raising his sword with clear intent to defend himself, whirling it about to make everyone fall an instinctive step back. He backed out of the circle of warriors, twirling once more to make sure no one was coming at him from behind.

"It's clear there is no honor in Caerleon," he called out.

"Someone grab him," the king said, but there was something lacking in his voice that made Merlin wonder if he really meant it. The warriors were moving, but no one with determined purpose.

"You'll never lay a finger on me," the boy promised. "Not while I'm alive."

"Done," the king agreed, in his raspy voice. "Show your face here again, we'll lay you twenty lashes and it'll be a fight to the death if you want a place in our ranks."

"I never will," the boy called, having now retreated to the edge of hearing, without the need to shout and exaggerate enunciation.

Merlin took two steps after him, intending to run and catch him up and offer that gold coin – but the king snatched him back.

"Where are you going?"

"I just… thought…" He gestured lamely, but the boy was only paying attention to those closest to him, retreating warily toward the gate of Beckon Cove. A moment later, he turned on his heels and ran.

"If you're going to _think_ ," the king sneered, "then you might as well go with the women." He pointed to his wife, turning his back and beginning to stalk away.

Merlin looked at the queen, who smiled and said nothing, only gathered her skirt and inclined her head, inviting him to join her.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

 _(Today)_

Annis wondered sardonically whether this departure from Camelot was going to be very similar to their last one, twelve years ago. Desperate, dissatisfied, and resentful, just barely retaining the civility necessary so neither side succumbed to the urge to declare war.

 _He's all right_ , Hunith had repeated, packing with fingers that had betrayed a tremble. _His pulse was strong, his breathing deep_.

The maidservant Guinevere had been helping them, though Annis wasn't clear whether that was based on orders or her own inclination. _I'll look in on him, I promise_ , she told them both, unprompted. _So will Gaius, when he's feeling better – and Morgana, probably._

That made Annis' eyebrow twitch. Well, it was out of her hands.

 _I'm sure Arthur won't let anything happen to Merlin, in spite of what King Uther said_ , the maid added.

Annis noted her use of the prince's first name. Good for her. Good for them.

 _He probably rolled right off that carrier to take the stairs himself_ , Hunith said, coming closer to Annis to tuck a rolled garment into one of their bags. _Don't you think?_

Annis did think. She thought about the way Merlin talked about Camelot and the new acquaintances he'd made, as much as what he'd said. There was a gleam to his eyes and life to his smile that had been missing when he'd ridden out of Beckon Cove.

He believes he's doing the right thing. He's not actually being held against his will.

She remembered Alator's response to her query for his aid. _Merlin is where he belongs. Destiny moves in unforeseen ways, but always in the right direction_. And Gaius had used the same word, when she mentioned the coincidence of meeting Merlin and his mother, when they left Camelot the first time, disappointed in their search for an heir.

Eafor, the man who'd driven their carriage from Caerleon, arrived at their door barely an hour after they'd left Uther's chamber, to carry their baggage down to the courtyard.

And Annis wondered if this departure would be desperate, dissatisfied and resentful, once again because of the magic-paranoid Uther. She considered refusal briefly, only briefly. In his unsettled state, who could anticipate what the king might order – and whether or not his men would carry it out.

But it was his son, the quiet golden-haired Arthur, who stood waiting at the bottom of the stair as the red-caped knight he was sending in escort swung up into the saddle. Eafor trotted down the stairs to secure the baggage at the back of the carriage, and Arthur turned.

He wore plain clothes, earth-brown and a deep-blue that made one notice his eyes. He also didn't hesitate to labor alongside his people, dusty and sweaty and indistinguishable from them. He fought his own battles and he accepted Merlin, in his own way. He was still quiet, but it was a confident, experienced stillness that Annis simultaneously wished for Merlin to achieve, and feared what it would require. Camelot's prince had been wounded in his battles, and had lost men – so had Merlin, now.

But, judging from the edge of something in the king's eyes she might label insanity in the privacy of her own thoughts, Annis rather thought that Camelot's prince had also shouldered the burden of ultimate responsibility for his own kingdom. Palpably since his father's illness – and his father perhaps just well enough to resist that... Permanently? Who could say.

"Your Majesty," he began, as they descended close to him. "Please accept my apology that your visit is to be cut short so abruptly."

Annis found herself smiling as she stepped down to the courtyard, and wanting to lighten the burden of his worry at least by this much. "Caerleon is an abrupt land," she said. "We do not take offense lightly, or prematurely. As far as I am concerned, we part on the same terms we were welcomed under." She offered her hand; his lips quirked as he raised his head from bowing over it.

"Those terms weren't exactly friendly," he remarked. "You arrived to news of your prince's injury, and depart having seen him last unconscious."

Hunith shifted her weight, tense and unhappy, and Arthur felt it too, by the discomfort in his expression.

"Our prince is not delicate," Annis said evenly. "We are satisfied with your care of him. I will inform His Majesty of that opinion upon our return home."

"I suppose I can expect a response by courier, then, shortly thereafter?" Arthur said. "I believe my father still intends for me to handle this matter personally."

"You may expect negotiations to commence," Annis said carefully. "I hope you consider our counteroffers seriously, and that you do not dismiss them out of hand for being… unconventional."

Arthur studied her a moment, and she saw that he realized Merlin would be negotiating his own terms, no matter what the king of Caerleon might communicate officially. She also saw that Merlin's fears following the aborted first dinner were likely unfounded, anymore. The capture of the goblin they'd been warned about, and had investigated following the commotion, had surely required Merlin's magic. Arthur had allowed at the least, and had defended Merlin to his father. The two princes could come to an agreement, Annis was satisfied. The prince's pique wasn't immutable, as his father's often was – and she might assume that was the mother's nature showing.

"I shall do what I can to see the situation is resolved with honor and satisfaction on both sides," Arthur said, and Annis nodded, content enough for the moment.

Eafor held the carriage door open, and Annis turned to enter first. Behind her, she heard Hunith speak quietly to Arthur.

"His life is in your hands, Your Highness."

"I know." Arthur's voice was husky with consciousness of responsibility, and that alone reassured Annis.

Hunith as well, probably; she mounted the stair and seated herself across from Annis without saying anything else. Annis expected a quiet tear or three, once they were past the gate; they both knew Hunith couldn't stay, however, and put the burden of her safety on Merlin's shoulders, or his new friends, as well.

Annis leaned back out the window as Arthur stepped closer to close and latch the door himself, and Eafor mounted the driver's seat. "I didn't know your mother well, Arthur," she said. "I met her only once, years before you were born. But I am as certain as I can be that she would be damn proud of the fine man you've become."

Arthur's eyes widened with surprise – he glanced at Hunith as if needing corroboration, and didn't see anything in her expression to negate Annis' sentiment. His smile curved genuine and charmingly pleased, and Annis was sure the weight of his crown had been lightened, at least momentarily.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said. "Farewell on your journey home."

Annis sat back, thinking – _You also, on your journey of life_ … How much longer would the intersection of his path and Merlin's last, before their prince was returned to his home?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin's return to consciousness was slow, and blurry, and twined with dread.

Nightmares? Freya and Morgana, slaughtering villagers under Caerleon indigo? No, he'd woken from that horror, he'd stared at the stone wall across the dark antechamber in speaking to Pendragon about standing up for what one believed was right, even to a king owed more than obedience. A stone wall dark with shadows and quite close-

Merlin blinked at another stone wall, a lot further off and warmed with morning sunlight, and remembered. He'd done magic in front of King Uther Pendragon. He'd proven the king's magic-blocking necklace ineffective, and he'd _choked a man with_ _magic_ in front of Uther Pendragon. And Arthur, who actually held his word of honor to remain.

Not really surprising, was it, that he was back in his cell. His body was sprawled on the cell's cot like he'd been carried and tossed – which he probably had been. L

Lucky, maybe, that it wasn't a worse place – he might have woken on a platform in the courtyard as the ax descended. He swallowed, and heaved a deep sigh, relieved at the fully normal function of his throat beneath the enchanted silver chain.

"How do you feel?"

He moved instinctively, twisting his head around to see Arthur, seated on the top stair just inside the door, feet on the next stair and elbows draped over his knees.

"Bit hungry," he managed, flippantly. "We never got breakfast."

Arthur made a little gesture. "They brought me mine."

Merlin grunted, unsurprised; after watching him another moment, Arthur gestured again, more pointedly. Merlin rolled far enough to see a tray had been placed beside the cot on the floor. "Oh."

A round heel of bread, two sausages gray with congealed grease, a cup with thin red liquid – watered wine. His stomach woke, if not his appetite, and he kicked his legs over the side of the cot, leaning down for a drink, first of all. Then the bread.

"Is your father angry with you, too?" he asked between bites. Arthur gave him a quizzical look. "Are we sharing this cell? Because otherwise, I'm a little… surprised to see you here." He muttered the last into the cup of the wine goblet.

"Why?" Arthur said, still not understanding – and his puzzlement reassured Merlin more than any words could, that he hadn't irrevocably alienated Arthur with a more violent use of magic. "You fainted like a girl, Merlin. But you thought I'd just leave you down here without any explanation?"

"Maybe." Merlin chewed and didn't meet Arthur's eyes directly. "I am surprised you're here, though. My idea really was a terrible idea… Magic shouldn't be used like that."

Arthur's irritated-confused look faded to comprehension. "Sometimes you have to choose between a bad idea and a worse one," he said. "You heard my father – he was ready to execute Gaius – and I imagine the goblin would only have escaped to someone else. Or escaped entirely. I don't know a quicker or… cleaner way of causing someone to _be dying_ , without risk of lasting harm. Unconventional. I suppose I could have put my hands about Gaius' neck, and had you catch it…"

"No, you couldn't have," Merlin said firmly. If it made him sick with guilt to use his magic like that – at the time, and now to recall – how much worse for Arthur who was closer to the old man, to have the memory of how it _felt_. "Is Gaius all right, though? He's angry with me, isn't he?"

Arthur straightened slightly. "He says he's fine. Wanted to come down here himself to say he doesn't blame you, and thank you. Gwen said maybe later, and she'd come to see that you were all right for him. She's keeping an eye on him."

The wine didn't really wash his mouth clean of the cold grease, but he tried another swallow anyway.

"At least there aren't bruises," Arthur added, and his eyes were focused a little lower than Merlin's face. "Is that what that does to you. And how you got the idea?"

"It's like… if you've ever been running, and someone grabs the back of your collar," Merlin said, making light of it. "It's meant to startle you out of the magic you're attempting, and convince you what an abysmal idea it is to try anything else."

"And you're stubborn," Arthur said dryly.

"I try to keep running," Merlin told him with a grin.

Arthur shook his head without smiling, and it was a long moment before he spoke, with difficulty and a hoarse edge to his voice. "Why do you do it? Why do you help us?"

"For the sake of my own self-respect," Merlin told him. He'd explained before, he thought, but he could understand how it was hard for the younger Pendragon to question what he'd always been taught. "Tell me if I'm wrong – or lie if you like, but I think I'll know – you'd do the same, in my shoes. Even if you were a prisoner in Caerleon, you'd fight to protect innocent people in an attack, especially if you were uniquely qualified."

"So… you helped us because… I treated you decently?" Arthur said, awkwardly. "And if I had been… more like my father, you would have… stood aside?"

"No," Merlin said, a bit tiredly. "I didn't do it for you. I did it for your people, because you're wrong about magic even if you never accept that. I would have enjoyed it a lot less, if you were more like your father. I probably would have lied about it, too."

Arthur stared at him, and he was too far away for Merlin to read the nuance of his expression.

"I've never met anyone like you," he said, as if he still didn't fully understand.

Merlin did, and he didn't blame Arthur, not anymore. He'd made assumptions about the Pendragons, father and son, before meeting them. And Arthur was much more than just an obedient replica of his father. He said, like he'd said to Gwen at the stocks his first day, "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too." Arthur studied Merlin a moment longer, before setting his feet from the last step to the floor of the cell and pushing upright. "You were unconscious, so you didn't hear my father's reaction – not only to your use of magic through that necklace, but because of the goblin, too. He was… angry."

Merlin snorted, and Arthur tossed him a half-hearted glare, beginning to pace slowly along the length of the outer wall - closer to Merlin, as if making sure they wouldn't be overheard by anyone outside the cell.

"I don't think he's… quite had a chance to recover fully from his… illness." Arthur's eyes met Merlin's in a flash of recollection – the mandrake's curse, only the older prince didn't know the specifics of who or how. "He's… unhappy at the thought that you're still able to do magic-"

He grimaced, at how far from reality his ability was, just now.

"So my custody of you has to revert back to this. I don't want you to be concerned for your safety, though." Arthur stopped two pace away and gestured around the cell. He spoke carefully, and kept his eyes at the level of Merlin's neck. "Leon and I are compiling a list of men we can trust. To guard my father… from himself, if need be. To guard you from… everyone else."

"And you're telling me this," Merlin said, slowly as he heard what Arthur hadn't said. "So I don't… fear for my life and do something drastic, with or without magic?"

"So you don't do something stupid," Arthur retorted – but he seemed relieved that Merlin understood.

He couldn't help a shiver at the seriousness and enormity of what Arthur was doing; he couldn't imagine ever coming between King Thurston and the people of Caerleon. But Thurston's ability to make rational and balanced decisions wasn't impaired the way Uther's would be, after something like the mandrake enchantment. He wished he knew more about it, and whether the effects would linger forever, or dissipate gradually.

"And what about… negotiating for my release?" Merlin said. "Because my king won't pay you or sign an agreement with you, any more than with your father, no matter what the queen tells him when she returns."

Arthur inhaled and let it out slowly, tipping his head back to gaze at the ceiling. "That's another thing you missed. My father was angry enough to demand that your queen return home immediately."

"Can I-" Merlin read Arthur's expression, and sighed, wishing he could have bid them farewell. Hugged his mother, and given her a message for Freya... Though what he could've said… "They've already left?"

Arthur nodded. "If it helps, we can discuss the terms of… a different arrangement between the two of us, and your stay can be… shortened."

Merlin was afraid to ask, if Arthur would go behind his father's back to release him from his cell and have him escorted by someone like Leon, back to the border. And how Uther would react…

"We once spoke of you rendering unique services…" Arthur hinted.

Add the goblin to the total of magical creatures Camelot needed rid of, Merlin supposed, and subtract the aid he'd given this morning, putting the creature back in its box. Maybe it was foolish for him to remind Arthur, but he'd rather be sure that Arthur was sure. Magic was still against the law, whether he was using it, or whether the prince was using him. "That was before Queen Annis told you what she'd heard about your parents using magic…"

Arthur lowered his head to look at Merlin again. Crossed his arms over his chest and shuffled back into the corner that was blind from the door, kicking the empty-clean waste-bucket out of his way. "My father wouldn't talk about it – or couldn't, maybe, I don't know. And Gaius said he'd sworn not to tell me."

Merlin debated giving his opinion, unasked. Because they weren't sparring to see who could get the most hits, verbally; Arthur was ungarded, in this moment, and that made Merlin want to be careful.

"Me, I'm no good at healing spells, normally," he said. It was enough of a shift away from topic that Arthur looked at him and listened – if with one eyebrow slightly raised. "But I was taught some of the theory, right? And there comes a point, when someone's dying, that healing spells don't do any good. And if you determine to save this one person's life, with the balance tipped so far toward death, that the only way you restore their life is by paying for it. With another death."

Arthur's other brow came down, eyes narrowing.

"It's likely that the same balance is required, when magic effects a child's conception. I don't know for sure, my tutor said leave well enough alone, that kind of magic. I suppose if you're willing to die yourself to save someone – to have a child, if you can't otherwise, that would be one thing. But I had the idea, you can't be specific? So someone dies, and it's swinging the executioner's axe blindfolded in a crowd, as to who. Maybe."

"So you're saying-" Arthur wasn't unguarded anymore, the tension of his body shifting toward _defense_ , "that my father-"

"I'm not." Merlin retreated immediately, without backing a single step. "I'm not saying that. I wasn't there, I don't know anyone who was, I don't even know for sure about the magic. Maybe no one told your father the cost, or maybe he expected it would be someone else. A criminal slated to be executed anyway, maybe."

He'd said something similar to Morgana about the careless dark magic she was using, too. Maybe her sister didn't know… Without knowing, himself, he wouldn't attribute motivation.

"Maybe your mother knew, and was willing," Merlin finished gently. "But when she died, your father…"

"My father reacted," Arthur said, dropping his eyes.

Merlin nodded, drifting sideways to put his shoulder to the cell's outer wall, beside Arthur but not facing him.

"But, that doesn't make him wrong," Arthur continued, troubled. "He declared that magic was a corruptive influence, anyone using it or anyone close to someone using it, sooner or later would turn to evil and destruction and murder, as an inevitability."

Merlin didn't argue, only nodded to indicate he was listening. And actually, understood Uther's reason, even if the man had gotten it all wrong, and had massacred innocents in his baseless hate and rage.

"I can admit he might be wrong," Arthur went on, slowly. "It seems logical to me that there would be good uses for magic. Healing, like you said. Stopping magical creatures that cause damage and death. But the thing is, when you say, magic is not a evil itself, tainting the judgement of those who use it, and someone can use it for good purposes all their life – of course _you_ would say that. Any sorcerer would say that, and it's a biased statement also."

Merlin shifted against the cool stone of the wall, feeling the rough of the cut of the blocks through the material of his shirt. "I guess you're right," he said. "But the thing is, once you've made magic an evil, punishable by death, the good people will hide from you and the vengeful, selfish users will attack you. Your examples of the magical population are all skewed to keep you believing in your misunderstanding."

Arthur grunted. "Perhaps after all this is done, I can visit outside Camelot, and you can show me some examples to the contrary, so I can make up my own mind."

Merlin made an impatient noise. "What do you think I've been doing since I got here?"

Arthur's silence felt startled, but before Merlin could turn to see what expression he was wearing, the door of the cell opened and green silk filled the doorway. Merlin was too surprised to drop his arms or push upright before Morgana was down the two steps into the cell, approaching him pale and troubled.

"I came to say I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so-"

Arthur moved out from the blind corner behind Merlin, and Morgana froze mid-step, her eyes widening. Merlin wondered if he could get away with excusing himself out of the cell, so they could talk – no probably not.

But Arthur didn't speak, and Morgana flicked Merlin a glance of mild annoyance – probably because she'd intended to talk to him alone. "Well. Now I've said I'm sorry, and that's all I came for, so…" She whirled and stalked back toward the door.

"Morgana." Arthur followed a few steps; Merlin couldn't identify his tone, but it stopped her in her tracks.

Foot on the first step, just like this morning when they'd caught her just outside her chamber, having been to the library. And that was all the significance the book that had been under her elbow meant to Arthur, but Merlin had recognized it. And if anyone could give Arthur an example of magic used correctly, it would be the girl he'd half-killed himself searching for.

As long as she wasn't being influenced by the sister who not only dabbled in dark magic, it seemed she plunged in eagerly.

Because neither of them spoke to break the awkward silence, Merlin offered, "We were talking about magic. Good and bad… the goblin that can't be let free in the citadel or town. And the sorcerer hostage who wants to enchant you and steal your gold…"

He grinned as Morgana turned, and Arthur grimaced at him. "You're so ridiculous, _Mer_ lin."

Merlin shrugged, addressing his female guest. "The debate continues, but I'll persuade Arthur of the truth about magic before I go home."

The eyes that flickered over the older prince held uncertainty. "I agree with Merlin," she said, and there was a fine, almost unnoticeable tremor in her voice. "Magic ought not be banned. Or punished with death."

"I know that's how you feel," Arthur said, not quite crossly. "But we can't allow creatures free if they cause chaos, and destruction is in their nature."

Morgana opened her mouth to argue the human side of magic, and Merlin interjected mildly, "We have laws restricting and governing magic." They both looked at him, and he added dryly, "It's not just melee rules when it comes to magic, that anything goes. It doesn't have to be an all or nothing gamble."

Black expressions, but there were glimmers of understanding dawning.

"Safeguards," Merlin added, turning away from them in going to sit on his bed – leaned back, boots crossed at his ankles. "Guidelines."

For a long moment Arthur and Morgana looked at each other. Merlin couldn't see Arthur's face, but he could tell that Morgana wasn't ready to confide her secret in her enemy's son. But maybe she wasn't so sure everyone else was her enemy, anymore. Merlin hoped she'd find a way to tell Arthur, and maybe someday soon.

"May I have a minute alone with Merlin?" Morgana asked, finally.

Arthur shifted like he wanted to say _no_ , outright. "To apologize again?"

Her chin went up. "Maybe. Or maybe to thank him for his help – have you said that to him, yet?"

"I meant it," Arthur said defensively.

Morgana huffed and moved around him, tossing over her shoulder, "Just give me a moment, all right?"

Arthur watched her – bent his brows at Merlin in a meaningful warning, and backed up the stairs and out the door. Merlin noticed that though they'd be able to speak quietly enough that he wouldn't hear them, he kept them in his line of sight. He stood as Morgana neared, hoping she wouldn't take it into her head to try to kiss him again, because that would be a very bad idea, even without Arthur's eyes on them.

"I am sorry," she said softly, and there was no trace of the smug superiority she'd approached him with, before. "It didn't even occur to me, but… I spoke to the goblin and it _ignored_ me. It might have robbed me, or anyone. And there in Uther's chamber, it might have gone inside any one of us. No one could have stopped it."

Merlin tried to reassure her, "But it didn't…"

She wasn't listening. "Uther was ready to have Gaius killed. They've been friends so long, he doesn't trust anyone the way he trusts Gaius, and-"

"Arthur said," Merlin forced the interruption, but tried to soften his words, "that his father reacted poorly because he was still affected by the illness."

Morgana's mouth drooped at the corners; they both knew, _mandrake_. "She said everything would go to plan, and it didn't. If she knew what the mandrake root would do, she didn't tell me-" She hesitated to go on to claim that she wouldn't have done it if she knew, and Merlin wasn't sure either of them would believe that. "And the goblin, this morning – I should have listened to you. She didn't even have a plan, only – open the box and see what happens. Gwen said… there could have been anything in there, more dangerous, and I was the only one in the room with it. If you and Arthur hadn't… worked together, to catch it and stop it…" She paused again, troubled by her thoughts, and he couldn't tell what they might be.

"Are you going to tell your sister? What happened?" he asked, flicking a quick glance over her head to see that Arthur was keeping his distance outside the cell's door. Because both of them needed the right sort of guidance, and he wasn't going to be the one to put them at odds.

Morgana shrugged, shifting her gaze away from his face. "There's nothing to tell. It's back in the cask, and if I even knew where Arthur had it put, I wouldn't let it out again. So there's nothing my sister can do about it anyway. It didn't exactly want to bargain, or ally."

Merlin snorted, glimpsing what the other woman must have told Morgana. And Arthur was right – her heart seemed in the right place, but not her head. Only maybe she was beginning to realize that.

"Be careful with your new book," he said, instead of warning her again about the nature of the sister she was determined to love and trust.

Morgana snorted. Maybe it was _of course_ or maybe it was, _I don't have to_. But the look she gave him as she turned away held thoughtful gravity, and no arch self-assurance.

It was a start. For both of them.

The door closed behind her, and Merlin felt no dread of encroaching boredom. He was sure Arthur would be back to continue their discussion of negotiating his release, if not magic and its uses. And in the meantime, he should get some rest. Exercise and maybe meditation – and if Gaius came, he could ask for the Bestiary, to deepen research on the creatures Camelot needed rid of.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur lingered outside the door of the cell, watching Merlin and Morgana from the corner of his eye like the guards at the end of the hall beneath the stair were watching him.

Because there was something that struck him – not at the time, but later and gradually – about how Morgana had initially defended her decision to open the goblin's cask. It wasn't how she'd once argued for a child of the druids to be rescued from imprisonment and execution, citing his age as proof of relative innocence.

 _Magic isn't meant to be trapped and caged, it's meant to be free_ … Not, _this particular magic-user who I don't feel deserves punishment._ It was an oddly inclusive turn of phrase for her, especially with what she'd experienced of the attacks of other magical creatures here, and how upset she always was after one of her uncanny dreams.

He watched her speak to Merlin in a surprisingly familiar way, and wondered if she would heed his advice about not plotting to free this particular magic-user. Or whether whatever experiences this year that she'd been gone had influenced her so strongly that she was unable to tolerate seeing someone else restrained. Even an unknown creature in a cask, or a barbarian.

They didn't speak for long, and Morgana was swishing up the stairs and through the door. She affected to ignore Arthur with a toss of her head, and he followed her, hearing one of the guards secure the cell door behind them.

"So," she said, not facing him as she climbed the stairs with alacrity, skirts hoisted out of her way. "Now that you've got the goblin locked away again, what will you decide to do with it? Hide it away for another fifty years?"

Arthur wasn't going to tell her where it was, and maybe give her ideas, in spite of her apology. "I'm not going to do anything with it," he said mildly. "If Merlin is right, it doesn't belong in our world at all, but I haven't the power to send it to another, by any means."

"And that'll let you sleep at night?" Morgana snapped.

He stopped her at the top of the stair, his hand on her arm. "Morgana. Can we not be on the same side about this? If you don't trust me to do the right thing, at least tell me what you think the right thing is."

She bit the side of her lip and shifted her weight, looking past him. "It shouldn't be in that little box. Magic should be free."

"Do you know who you sound like?" he said gently. She gave him a blank, unhappy look. "If you listened to Merlin at all these last few days, you'll know that he doesn't even believe that. Safeguards and guidelines, remember? If you were anyone else, and Father found out you'd freed that creature-" Her eyes were dark and wide, and she swallowed; he took pity and lifted his hands to squeeze her upper arms lightly. "I'm not my father, and you should know better than to _generalize_ like he does."

"But the law is the law," she countered. "You're a knight, and you're honor-bound-"

He shook his head. Sometimes you have to choose between a bad idea and a worse one. Sometimes he wanted to protect his father from himself, when it came to magic. _Camelot needs a leader… it falls to you._ Life was compromise and negotiation. A king's rule was compromise and negotiation. Some magic cannot be loosed and some should be eradicated – conversely, some should be allowed? But he wouldn't even think the word _encouraged_.

"Merlin has ideas what to do about the goblin," he said, not bothering to remind Morgana of the times in the past when he'd done things without his father's knowledge, counting on forgiveness over permission. "He doesn't want it trapped forever either. But there are other things to consider today – cleaning up after the battle, my father's health, and… you."

Her eyes widened in genuine surprise – and maybe a hint of fear, before she denied emotion with a scoff. "Me?"

"This last year," he said, feeling awkward. If she wasn't just putting a brave face on, claiming to be fine, if she actually believed she was fine, they had worries deeper than just figuring out how best to care for her. They'd have to convince her she needed it.

She took a step back. "What about this past year?"

"Well… you can talk to me about what happened," he said clumsily. "About what you went through. Or Gwen, or Gaius? But someone."

"I told you-" she began, backing another step. Like she was afraid of him.

Why would she be afraid of him? "The truth, though, Morgana," he said gently. "I'm not an idiot, and what little you said, didn't make sense. For your own good, we need to know where you were and what happened to you."

She didn't say anything, but she looked exactly as she had that morning, facing the chaos in the king's room, caused even indirectly by her actions. Overwhelmed and lost.

"There's no need to be afraid," he tried, regretting that he hadn't handled this more adroitly. "No one's going to blame you for what happened, or anything you were forced to choose to do. We're not going to be angry with you."

Inexplicably, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she turned her head like she was trying to hide them. He moved closer – carefully, not wanting to startle her with inadvertent reminders of her captors. Maybe he should have waited a few more days, but she seemed so much herself…

As he stepped to Morgana's side, there was movement down the corridor that came into his view, and caught his attention. It was Gwen, dressed in sea green, bleached blouse under a gold-embroidered bodice, hair pinned up to leave her neck looking vulnerable – and moving with purpose. Relief flooded him as she met his eyes; she glanced to Morgana, and seemed to comprehend the situation immediately.

"Morgana?" Gwen called, striding to them.

The lady who rarely showed weakness or uncertainty turned toward her maid's voice like it was a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea, wordlessly reaching.

"That was quite a lot of excitement we had this morning," Gwen commented, allowing Morgana to grasp her sleeve, and curling her fingers around Morgana's other shoulder, to turn and guide her away. "Perhaps you'd like to rest a while? I can attend upon you in your chambers shortly…"

"Yes, Gwen, thank you, that will do," Morgana said gratefully – and hurried away down the corridor behind Gwen. Who shifted herself into Arthur's way so he couldn't readily follow her.

He didn't try to. "I'm sorry," he said to Gwen. "I didn't mean to upset her. I only suggested that… she talk to someone about what really happened this past year." Understanding softened Gwen's dark eyes, and he added, guessing, "She talked to you?"

At the same time as Gwen confessed, "She talked to me."

Arthur paused expectantly, but Gwen only set her jaw and dropped her eyes from his a few inches. So he demanded, "Well?"

"She told me a little," Gwen said. "She should tell you, not me."

"Was it a man?" Arthur said immediately, lowering his voice though they were alone.

"No," Gwen said.

Good. That meant her prospects for the future, and marriage, were still open and good, whenever Uther – or Morgana herself – decided it was time. There might be some muffled gossip about the possibility of innocence lost this year, but no one dared not take her word for her state, and there would be plenty of men who wouldn't care, anyway.

"Was she taken and held against her will?" he asked quickly. Because Gwen had been so certain that Morgana wouldn't just run away from them – and he'd believed Sir Acollyn of Trevena when he said, _she isn't here_. The knight had been searching for the lady of Trevena ever since, as far as Arthur knew, beyond Camelot's borders where Arthur could not take the patrols without causing diplomatic incidents.

Gwen said more slowly, "No. Please, Arthur, no more questions. With what happened this morning, and Prince Merlin here – and the battle, too, I suppose – I don't know if she'll be able to relax enough to say any more to me, or to want to talk to you about it."

Arthur took it for granted that Morgana wouldn't care to talk to his father, either. Probably not even if he was in his right mind. If he ever fully recovered that. Which was horrible to think, and if he hadn't been _crown prince_ as well as _son_ , he couldn't.

"Are you going down to see Merlin?" he asked.

Curly dark tendrils bounced as she nodded. "I finally convinced Gaius to nap. Though the valerian I put into his mulled wine might have been more persuasive."

The mischievous glint in her eye made his lips smile and his heart swell. Body and spirit felt a little less heavy when he spoke to her and he loved her as an amazing part of his kingdom – a special person that he knew well, out of all his people. He would walk through fire to lead a Camelot that produced people like her.

"Don't stay long, chatting with Merlin," he told her. One arched eyebrow asked, _Jealous?_ And he explained, "He'd only just come to, a while ago when I was in there. And if we are going to… negotiate his release, he'll need to be well-rested and strong."

"Good thing I brought this, then." Gwen produced a tiny glass vial from her apron pocket, and moved past him to the stair that led down to the cells.

Arthur decided he didn't want to know what was in it, and continued on his way. He had repairs to inspect in the lower town – and a blacksmith to see about a favor.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine stood aside in the street to let the carriage pass. He recognized one of the women inside, and it only confirmed the rumors that had piqued his interest in a village tavern not far from here.

"So it's true, then," he said aside to the man nearest him, also loitering at the side of the street to watch the carriage pass. He was younger than Gwaine, dark-skinned, and wore a blacksmith's heavy leather apron. "The prince of Caerleon is Camelot's hostage."

The blacksmith shrugged, apparent unconcern belied by the intensity in his eyes. "The queen evidently came to see for herself that their heir was well enough to be negotiated for."

Gwaine remembered a big-eyed waif of a child, and how he'd met the damn king's eyes fearlessly. He wondered if that child had grown up to be as wild and careless and brutal as the rest of them…

But either way, Gwaine felt that he owed something to the prince who might have been his. He'd attempted to help Gwaine, to save him and what remained of his family – Gwaine was determined to repay him with his best attempt to help or save.

"You've just arrived in town?" the dark-skinned blacksmith asked, indicating the pack slung over Gwaine's shoulder. "You looking for someone or someplace in particular?"

"Someplace I can find a good meal, a good drink, and a good bed," Gwaine told him with a grin. "Say – where do the knights or the guards go when they're off-duty? Soldiers always know the best places."

"Just down the street." The man pointed. "Rising Sun – you can't miss the sign."

"Thanks very much, friend," Gwaine said, and with another nod, continued to saunter down the street.

They wouldn't be drinking heavily enough in the daytime for anything Gwaine had in mind. And of course he wouldn't be lucky enough to run into someone carrying keys, or scheduled for night duty in the dungeon. But it would be a start at a game Gwaine had gotten to be very good at. And if the gods and goddesses smiled on him, he might be meeting the prince of Caerleon for the second time tonight.

 **A/N: A bit longer, this one… but the next one might start getting into the climactic action… Also, valerian is a mild sedative used against insomnia. Just so you know I did my research. *winks***


	21. Stranger Things

**Chapter 21: Stranger Things**

Merlin said, without opening his eyes or tensing a single muscle, "If you touch me I'm going to break your fingers."

He was lying on the cot in his cell, mostly on his stomach, face mashed into the flat pillow, one knee drawn up. Sundown was a couple of hours ago, though it didn't feel like midnight yet, but the cell was never truly dark – moonlight and torchlight from the courtyard through the apertures at the top of the outer wall, more torchlight through the viewing window in the door.

The door whose hinges he'd heard just moments ago, banishing sleep and pulling him to awareness. Based on the late-ish hour, and the near-silent whisper of trouser-legs and boot-tread, he'd guess _Arthur_ , out of the small handful of people who might come to his cell at any time.

But as soon as his visitor spoke, he remembered another possibility – one Arthur had been trying to avoid by posting guards he trusted specifically.

"Just trying to make sure I'm breaking the right man out of the cells, mate."

He was up on an elbow and a knee in an instant, tensing at the proximity of a stranger, before he registered the words – and the attitude of the man, raising empty hands as he backed away from Merlin's cot.

"What-" Merlin said stupidly. "Are you doing in here? Who are you?"

"You're the prince of Caerleon, aren't you?" the man said, dropping his hands from the reassuring posture to tuck his thumbs comfortably in his belt.

Which held a sword. And beyond a tangle of long dark curls and the depth of shadow on his face indicating a beard, Merlin couldn't distinguish any characteristics in the dim light.

"Depends on who's asking," Merlin answered warily, getting his feet over the side of the cot. In spite of the comment about escaping the cell, if the stranger intended him harm, he'd have to wait for the sword to be drawn before he could do anything – supplemented by magic, or not – to appropriate the weapon for his own self-defense.

"Ah," the man said. "Now I can see you better. Who knew you'd grow tall?"

"Who are you?" Merlin asked again, more confused. No one from Camelot would want to help him break out of a cell, and no one from Caerleon would come for him. Anyone who might was going to be ordered not to, by the king.

"My name's Gwaine," the man said, extending his hand.

Merlin flinched at the action without meaning to; a casual introduction was so incongruous, in the situation. "And you know me?"

"We met once," the man named Gwaine said easily, dropping his hand without taking offense. "Come over here where the light is better." Merlin moved, but no closer to him; he could see the gleam of teeth in a grin. "Not by name, though. Everyone knew who you were – Prince Merlin, adopted for your extraordinary magic."

Merlin couldn't help snorting. How far that was from the truth, at the moment.

"Of me, they only said. Geart's son."

The name echoed down through memory, teasing at a faint impression, strengthened because he'd thought of the bold boy more than once, wondering what became of him.

"They gave you your father's sword," Merlin said slowly, remembering and guessing, in one. "He died in battle?"

"At Denaria."

"Oh…" Merlin said, a long sound of realization. He hadn't been aware of the war at the time it was fought, only learning of it later as history between Caerleon and Camelot, part of the justification for Fyrien, which also had been a defeat. "So… what happened to you? Why are you here?"

"Left my mother and sister to the charity of neighbors, and maybe the fortune of a good marriage," Gwaine said, in a careless way that made Merlin wonder. Had the boy who'd come to Beckon Cove seeking to earn support for his family changed so much that he no longer cared for them. "Haven't been back to Caerleon since. I guess you know why."

"Yes, but – Camelot?" Merlin asked. Because Uther's knights were the enemy at Denaria, where Sir Geart had been killed.

"Once in a while. Mostly not."

Merlin cleared his throat and said softly, "I'm sorry." Not just for the man's father, but for the boy Gwaine had been.

Gwaine appeared not to have heard him. "Lucky I was, this week, or I wouldn't have heard about you. So – what happened to _you_? And why are _you_ here?"

"I was sent to lead a raid," Merlin explained, trying to shrug off the guilt-shame-embarrassment with a minimum of words. "Arthur ambushed my men. I surrendered so he'd let the rest of the warriors return to Caerleon."

"What about all this magic you're supposed to have?" Gwaine asked critically.

Merlin tucked one finger behind the necklace, pulling it out for show. "Uther's idea of hospitality. It's meant to block the magic."

Gwaine grunted. "You can't get it off?"

"I'm working on that." Merlin smiled, though the other man probably couldn't see it, and wouldn't understand anyway.

Gwaine was staring at him, though, he could tell, and it made him uncomfortable. But only for a moment, before he twitched at Merlin's sleeve, not quite touching him. "Come on, we don't have a great deal of time."

He headed for the cell door and Merlin followed instinctively, up the few stairs and through the door – left just slightly ajar, and that only noticeable from up close. The air outside the cell, at the foot of the stone-carved stair, was thick with sweet smoke that made Merlin want to cough and sneeze at once. His eyes tingled and blurred til he blinked them clear, and he felt at once both lighter and taller.

Two guards were slumped atop their stools, leaning one against the wall that formed the base of the stair, and one over their tabletop, cup tipped and dice spilled on the floor.

"What happened?" Merlin said, venturing near enough to them to see that they were still breathing and unbloodied. "What did you do?"

"They'll be fine," Gwaine said, without really answering. "They'll wake up eventually, so – let's go." He turned to the stair.

"No – wait," Merlin said, this time not following. "I'm not leaving, not like this."

Gwaine paused to look at him, raising incredulous eyebrows, and Merlin tried to fumble his way to understanding, for both of them.

"You said – that day we met, you said there was no honor in Caerleon. I'll give you, not much. But it's there if you look for it – and it's here in Camelot too, if you look for it."

Gwaine left the stair, scoffing. "I've never seen any, among the entitled classes."

"I have," Merlin told him. "I gave my word to Arthur-"

"Arthur!" Gwaine exclaimed in disgust. "The Pendragon prince who ambushed you and put that chain around your neck."

"That was his father's idea," Merlin corrected.

"The prince hates magic as much as the king, doesn't he?"

"He doesn't hate it, he's just wary and… uninformed," Merlin said. "After I surrendered, they found my magic book and I said, yes I'm a sorcerer-" Gwaine grimaced his opinion of the intelligence of Merlin's confession. "He didn't scream and run. He didn't order his men to attack and kill me. He just waited, to see what I would do. As if, he doesn't believe that magic deserves death – it depends entirely on how it's used. That was his instinct. And he's apologized for his father's ill-treatment of me, and he's expressed gratitude for the magic I've done here to help him, and-"

Gwaine took another step closer. "You _like_ him," he exclaimed. "Don't you. Your enemy?"

Merlin rolled his eyes, uncomfortable at the accusation. "The kings are enemies, but we're not. We're negotiating my release-"

"How's that going for you?" Gwaine interrupted sarcastically, gesturing at the cell they'd just left.

"I gave him my word," Merlin said determinedly. "That means something to me. I'm not going to break it by sneaking out of here at night."

"Why do you feel like you owe him? Why do you feel like you owe any of them?" Gwaine's tone was more curious than resentful – and he hadn't shrugged to Merlin's refusal to leave, turning his back to depart the citadel himself without getting caught, as he'd entered.

Which was impressive. Merlin could only have done it with magic, probably – and he'd been right about the value of keeping this man's loyalty.

"I do owe Arthur for letting my men live," Merlin said. "And I owe it to magic-users everywhere to give the Pendragon heir the best and truest impression of magic that I can. I owe my king for taking my mother and me in, but as to how I'll return that benevolence, that's going to have to be re-negotiated as well, for I'll not go raiding again."

Gwaine came right up to him, studying him all over – the shape of his body, the depths of his eyes, the one ornament that adorned his neck.

"What makes you think Pendragon's not just taking advantage of you?" he said. "That he's not using you, that block and the threat of being here where they kill magic? If you want your freedom, you'll do anything vastly disproportionate to the value of what you're getting in return?"

Merlin let a small smile curve his lips. "My life. Peace between our kingdoms. The grounds for an alliance when it's our turn to reign? Yeah, that's worth a couple of hours of boredom locked up, a couple nights on a cot. A bit of magic that costs little more than the energy it takes to perform."

Gwaine tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "Pendragon asked for magic in negotiations?"

"I offered," Merlin said. "He's just about accepted."

"And you think you're safe in the meantime?"

Merlin shrugged. The flash of torchlight reflected in the other man's eyes banked as if in consideration, and Merlin took the opportunity to study his surprising visitor in return. Plain clothing – sturdy and worn, like his boots. Hair unkempt, jaw unshaven… sword riding his hip like part of him, and what must surely be his father's family ring on a chain of his own around his neck.

Maybe he had no respect for Thurston or Caerleon or nobility at all, anymore – but he still honored and remembered his father as a good man and a knight. And if Thurston had made a different decision that day, he and Gwaine might be old and fast friends now, familiar through training together and maybe adventuring about the countryside – and if he'd been along on the Evorwick-Stonedown campaign… oh, well. Gaius called it destiny. Alator said, everything happens for a reason, even when we think it should have or could have happened a better way.

"Why don't you stay?" Merlin ventured. "You can meet Arthur, get to know him a little, judge for yourself-"

"Have him throw me in a deeper cell," Gwaine said cynically. "Send for the executioner…"

"He'd be more likely to escort you out and tell you don't come back, if he really was mad," Merlin said, thinking of how Arthur had reacted to Merlin's spontaneous – and illegal – use of magic. With exasperation rather than hatred and the desire to see him punished for an otherwise harmless transgression of the law. "I'll give you my word, too. Your protection to the best of my ability while we remain in Camelot."

He held out his hand, and Gwaine looked at it. For a long moment.

Then he remarked, "I should have known you'd be difficult about being rescued. You're a prince of the barbarians after all, aren't you?"

Merlin grinned, and Gwaine took his hand in a firm grip of agreement.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gaius trod the corridor between the king's chamber and the prince's, quiet and cool between the torch-brackets on the wall, whispering warm when he passed the illumination. The strap of his physician's case passed over a shoulder bent with age and worry, and his hands were empty. He gazed into them briefly, gnarled and wrinkled, two fingers stained from the basil he'd been crushing too absent-mindedly earlier in the day.

Twenty years and more ago, he'd walked this same route in one direction or the other between king and prince, father and son, man and boy. Sometimes he'd carried Arthur, kept too late after a private dinner for little legs and tired eyes, or brought for parental comfort after a fever-induced nightmare. Moments when Gaius, old bachelor that he was, wasn't enough for the motherless prince who'd needed people the way his father had refused to.

They were all so blessed that Uther hadn't managed to train that need out of his heir.

Gaius paused before the door of Arthur's chamber, and sighed deeply. Gone were the days when he could carry Arthur, or his childish burdens for him. Now the crown prince carried the burdens of the whole kingdom…

And delay could not help. Gaius raised his fist and knocked.

"Come in."

Gaius pushed the door open, ascertaining their privacy in a moment. Arthur stood beside his desk, reading from a scroll tilted to catch candlelight. He turned to identify his visitor with a glance; paused, and let the page drop to the desktop, giving Gaius his full attention.

"Well?"

Gaius had a lifetime's experience giving bad news to patient and family alike, far too often than he liked. "A relapse."

Arthur sagged, catching himself with a palm down on the scroll on his desktop. He looked blindly toward the candle.

"I've given him a sedative that should last the night," Gaius went on. "Of course the guards and servants have orders to fetch me if he should wake agitated, but… I am sorry, Sire. This was the fourth dose necessary today. His heart-rate increases dangerously and his temperature rises correspondingly, and… Arthur. Twice he gave orders for Gorlois to be brought to him, to give him updates on two different battles, fought years apart."

Arthur thumbed absently at the edge of the scroll, hiding his expression. At once it hurt Gaius' heart and made him proud. Arthur was _ready_ ; everyone knew it but him.

He said, "Did you tell him…"

"That Gorlois has been dead a dozen years? Both times."

Arthur's mouth tightened grimly, and then he looked at Gaius. "He gave me a list of people he suspected of using magic. Half of them are dead, or don't serve here in the citadel any longer. Tom the blacksmith, for one."

Who never had magic, Gaius knew for a fact.

"Leon is on it," Arthur said, the wry tone in his voice a rickety bridge across a vast deep darkness. "And Geoffrey." He lifted one hand to rub at his eyes, thumb and fingers, resting his hips back against the desk. "He's being guarded and served by men who know to come to me or you or Leon before following irregular orders, but – what are we to do?"

"I cannot keep giving him this sedative, this often," Gaius said. "Not without risking damage to his health in other ways. But… I noticed also that between his agitation and his enforced rest, he has lost interest in his meals, and won't be encouraged to eat or drink much."

Arthur nodded silently, dropping his gaze to his boots and crossing his arms over his chest. He'd probably noticed as much himself, and he was intelligent enough to know what it meant, but it was Gaius' duty to tell him, anyway. Gently.

"If that doesn't change, he will soon be too weak to leave his chambers, if he were so inclined. Poorer physical health might render him more docile…"

Arthur cringed; Gaius couldn't blame him. For all his faults and failures, Uther had been his friend and a good king in all but magic and mercy.

"But it will change?" The prince looked up hopefully beneath the mild dishevelment of golden hair hanging low over his brow. Gaius didn't answer, and Arthur's expression fell. "It _could_ change?"

"Anything is possible, of course, my lord." He tucked his hands into his sleeves. "However, as the recovery of an illness of the mind is also impossible to predict, it is my duty to inform you that, once again, several members of the council have asked me to approach you about implementing a regency."

Arthur began shaking his head. "I won't give up on him. I won't usurp-"

Gaius used the prince's name as kindly and compassionately as he could. " _Arthur_. You are usurping nothing that your king is able to claim for himself. Or ever may claim again, with a clear and level mind. A regency may be voluntarily rescinded, if and when you and the council come to believe that your father is capable of bearing the mantle of leadership again."

The muscles of Arthur's shoulders were set, and his jaw hardened.

"There were several who were… greatly concerned that Caerleon should take offense at the treatment of her queen," Gaius added. "And their prince, magic or no."

"Annis wasn't offended," Arthur mumbled. "And Merlin is…"

"I know," Gaius said, and added again, "Arthur. Don't think of this as something you're doing _to_ your father. Think of it as something you're doing _for_ him."

Another moment passed with Arthur staring at his boots. Then he jerked a brief, unhappy nod. "Have Geoffrey draw up the papers. My agreement ought to appease the council for a couple of days, and by then, maybe… I want to deal with Merlin before they think they can direct my regency, and make things difficult."

"Very well," Gaius said, approvingly. That right there, proved Arthur his father's son in the best possible way, well able to handle the reins of a kingdom. "Gwen said he took the restorative draught and she stayed til he fell asleep again, so if my opinion isn't meaningless without personal observation, he should be fine tomorrow. I intend to visit myself, after my morning rounds."

Arthur raised his head contemplatively. "Did my father tell you how to get that chain off his neck?"

"No. Twice I tried to persuade him before he began eyeing me with suspicion. But Merlin believes his tutor in Helva would be able to break the enchantment."

Arthur grunted, conceding the point that Merlin did not need to remain in Camelot til he was released from magical restraints as well as physical. "When you look in on him in the morning, perhaps you could bring a book or two to alleviate his boredom."

The prince turned and bent to open a drawer of his desk, lifting a book that Gaius recognized immediately; he'd paged through it days ago, seeking information on the king's mysterious malady, though they'd never found a cursed object in the king's room for cause. Arthur handed the book to Gaius, whose heart skipped a beat – until he realized, with Arthur as acting regent, no harm would come to him even if he were caught carrying the Caerleon prince's book of magic.

"Also maybe a Bestiary?" Arthur suggested, as Gaius turned to the door. "Anything that informs on the origin of magical creatures."

Gaius paused only briefly, trusting his prince and not needing details. "Of course, Sire. Good night, and pleasant dreams."

Arthur snorted cynically – heading not for his bed, but for his desk.

Gaius lingered in the doorway to watch him a moment longer, reminded of countless nights when he was the last person to attend upon King Uther, leaving him still poring over messages and reports.

 _King Arthur_ had a fine sound. Already he was bargaining with enemies as allies. Uther's reign had been good, but Gaius knew he was not wrong, or alone, in anticipating that Arthur's reign would be _great_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur was up and dressed by first light. It wasn't hard; sleeping was more difficult these days, since the battle exhaustion that made him drop like a rock onto his mattress has been spent.

His father's iron grip on his reign was slipping, and he wasn't even aware. Arthur was planning to break Camelot's defining law and release a valuable hostage and declare his own regency. All in a single week.

Well, last week they'd been at war, and Uther whimpering incoherently in a corner.

Morgana had kept to her room yesterday, after the incident with the goblin and Queen Annis' departure. He hadn't seen her since she'd caught him in Merlin's cell, come to see for herself that the younger prince was none the worse for wear. To apologize and say thank you.

Arthur trod the stairways downward to the cells hoping he could avoid Morgana today, also. She'd demand to know what they were doing and insist on being included and while he trusted Gwen's conclusion about Morgana's mindset and the mystery of the missing year, he didn't want Morgana involved in this if he couldn't be sure what she was going to do or how she would react.

As requested, Leon was waiting for him at the last corridor before the last stair.

"It was a quiet night," Arthur told him, referring to their shared worry for the king's health, both physical and mental. "Elyan should be joining us shortly after dawn?"

"I left orders at the gate," Leon answered, jogging down the stairs beside him. "He'll meet us in the armory."

Arthur nodded confirmation and thanks. Care needed to be taken with this endeavor; though only a nobleman might question Arthur if he were seen or interrupted, he very much wanted to avoid two or more, especially council-members, questioning liberties he was taking before he'd sworn the oaths of regency. They might object if they thought-

Rounding the corner at the bottom of the stair, Arthur's instincts raised hackles. The two sentries hadn't popped to their feet attentively, alert to their prince's arrival; they slouched over the table between them, limbs relaxed sloppily. Not dicing or snoozing, just – overly exhausted from a night of vigilance? Groggy… drunk? There was no wine pitcher.

"What's going on here?" Leon demanded, passing Arthur to approach them. When words failed to rouse more than blank looks and sluggish responses, he took one's arm to shake. "What is the meaning of this?"

Arthur's head turned so fast his neck cricked; the door of Merlin's cell stood just ajar.

"Dam _mit_!" he cursed, leaping to crash through the door, bracing himself at the top of the double-stair, prepared to see blood – or nothing.

But Merlin was present and unharmed – startling up from a sprawled sitting position on the bed. Boots on the floor, knees allowed to fall to each side, the back of his head and shoulders propped against the wall, fingers laced lazily over his belly.

Arthur took a moment to breathe and compose himself, not wishing to be teased for relief in the younger prince's well-being. But though Merlin had been surprised by Arthur's abrupt appearance, he looked more guilty than bewildered. Glancing to the side, he showed Arthur reassuringly empty hands, patting the air as if in substitution for Arthur's shoulders.

"Please don't panic," Merlin said.

Before Arthur could form his lips to the question of _What?_ or _Why?_ a stranger stepped out from the slight bend in the wall where they'd placed Merlin's waste-bucket for privacy.

Plain clothes, dark tangled hair and beard; _intelligent eyes_ which was a problem because of _sword at his hip_.

Arthur didn't panic. He went coldly methodical, easing his hand across toward the hilt of his own weapon, transferring his weight down a balanced step. Judging the speed and the angle he'd need to draw and thrust, it could be done. The stranger's arms were crossed over his chest; it would take him longer to clear his weapon than it would take Arthur to reach him.

"Merlin," he said, very calmly moving down to the floor of the cell and shifting the first pace forward. "Stand up. Get behind me."

The stranger's body tensed with subtle fluidity, reacting to Arthur's second step, and the first whisper of freed steel.

Merlin didn't move, his mouth dropping open as guilt swung back toward surprise. "Arthur, what are you doing? It's all right, I know him. He's the son of a knight from Caerleon."

Arthur paused to evaluate this information. Not someone acting on their own against a sorcerer? Or sent by his father, orders slipping somehow through Arthur's protective nets?

"You thought," the stranger said slowly, "that he was in danger from me? You were going to protect him?"

Arthur drew himself up, prepared to deny, though he let his hand linger on the hilt at his hip. Then Merlin stood, looking at the knight's son before back at Arthur.

"Because of… what you told me yesterday. The king, and… guarding me." Merlin's grin spread cheerfully sly. "You see? I didn't do anything stupid."

The stranger snorted, leaning one shoulder against the wall opposite the cot and kicking the toe of one boot to the outside of the other in an attitude of lazy insouciance. "That's debatable."

Merlin gave him a grimace of protest.

"You're from Caerleon," Arthur said, guessing at the obvious – he'd come to help his prince escape. Maybe against orders? "How'd you get in?"

" _Not_ from Caerleon," the stranger corrected. "Voluntary self-exile. The name's Gwaine."

"And how did you get in?" Arthur repeated, making the question a demand. He really didn't care to know the stranger's life-story.

Caerleon origins showed, though, in the grin and sarcastic retort. "I don't have to tell you that."

"Gwaine," Merlin said reprovingly.

Which returned Arthur's attention to him, as Leon filled the doorway above and behind him; both other men flicked glances above Arthur's head at the knight.

"The guards were drugged," Leon said only, reading the situation and knowing that he didn't have to react to the presence of a stranger in Merlin's cell. His intuition was something Arthur appreciated about him.

"I'm a bit sorry about that," Gwaine said without apology in his voice or grin. "I'm sure they're lovely vigilant fellows, normally."

Damn barbarians.

Arthur looked at Merlin and spoke with fuming sarcasm, humiliated by association. "So why are you still here? If he unlocked your cell and obviously could get you past our guards…"

"Hells," Merlin said, abruptly and blazingly _mad_. "Do you still not trust me? This is me cooperating like I swore to do, keeping my word until you tell me we're even and I'm free to go."

Arthur breathed, and disliked the way Gwaine was watching both of them; it was different from Leon's observation and it grated. Deliberately he paced forward, til he could have reached out and touched the chain at Merlin's neck. And already the anger Merlin displayed was tempered by curious anticipation of Arthur's response.

"Please accept my apology, Your Highness," he said, inclining his body a few degrees from the waist, and he was careful to show no mockery whatsoever. "I am sorry I offended you."

"Prat," Merlin said, in place of any other word that could have been far more offensive. He sounded almost fond, though he grimaced as if in distaste for Arthur's show of respect, and pushed Arthur's shoulder with a fist. "It's not your fault."

"I blame your king," Gwaine suggested – and looked at Merlin when they both turned to him, widening his eyes to excuse his interruption and shrugging as if to say, _What?_ "I blame your king, too."

Arthur huffed, and the tension at the center of his chest relaxed a bit. "So you stayed," he said to Merlin. "But why did he?"

"I asked him why he didn't use magic to escape," Gwaine answered instead of Merlin, speaking evenly. "He told me about that chain at his throat. I heard rumors in town, about his day in the stocks. And when he mentioned that his stitches were itching – I got that story, too. Maybe you could say I don't trust Camelot's treatment of him."

"I told him there was honor in Camelot." It was Merlin's turn to shrug. "He has a very low opinion of nobility – and especially royalty." He leaned closer to Arthur on his toes, tipping his head confidentially. "That _is_ my king's fault. But Gwaine is willing to be convinced to the contrary."

"You make a habit of that?" Arthur said, giving Merlin a squint and a half-smile. "Convincing people their opinions are wrong?"

Merlin beamed.

"Self-appointed bodyguard is it?" Arthur said to Gwaine, grudgingly allowing some respect for the man, especially if he was telling the truth about being estranged from his prince's kingdom.

"I'll go where he goes, til he's crossing the border for home," Gwaine said.

"Then what?" Arthur couldn't help asking. Because the man's build and his sword and his movements made him think, "Mercenary?"

"Sometimes," Gwaine answered with unselfconscious cheer.

"In Cenred's pay?" Arthur challenged. Merlin's eyes widened as they darted to the other man, as if that possibility hadn't occurred to him. Which was all right; he'd probably think more like Arthur if they were all in Caerleon with roles reversed, right now.

"Not yet," Gwaine responded in a like manner, and Arthur found he believed him. If only because Gwaine didn't seem the sort to care enough to lie. And he was a knight's son himself, even if one in self-exile from an enemy kingdom.

"Behave yourself, and we won't have an issue," Arthur told him firmly. "And no more drugging the guards."

"Not unless I have to," Gwaine promised, irrepressible.

Merlin snickered, and Arthur raised an eyebrow at him sternly. "Care to stretch your legs a bit?"

"Where are we going?" Merlin said in answer, eyes clear and expression animated with interest. "That tour of the citadel? The training field?" He turned to Gwaine. "It's actually a field, not just bare ground-"

"I know," Gwaine said, dryly amused.

"Below the dungeons," Arthur told him. "That's where I put the goblin." Gwaine's eyebrows rose in surprise; Arthur guessed Merlin hadn't gotten around to mentioning that story. He added, with deliberate enjoyment in astounding the mercenary, "It's right next to the griffon."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine followed the two princes, glancing now and then at the knight who matched his pace beside him, just as Sir Leon was glancing at him.

He met Leon's eyes with cheeky grins, which didn't seem to unsettle the knight's watchfulness. That was telling, though, that he considered Gwaine the most likely threat, unpredictable and unexpected. Rather than Merlin, the _sorcerer in Camelot._

Merlin was not what Gwaine had expected, at all. He'd thought of him as a quiet and frail young man, as he'd been as a child, in spite of his moment of courage when Gwaine met him. Or he'd anticipated a sullen bully like every other noble boy in Caerleon; Gwaine could discharge this last duty of conscience, helping to free him, and be on his way without another backward look or thought. But Merlin actually reminded Gwaine of his father. Intelligent and relying on humor rather than temper to forge his way through situations and relationships – with a bright sort of courage and a gallant charm. And he'd given his word to protect Gwaine, when of the two of them, Gwaine was both armed and free to leave.

Gwaine watched him toss his head back and laugh at something Arthur said, and the Pendragon prince showed half a smile on his profile as they jogged the stairs in tandem, downward and deeper into the bowels of the citadel.

Arthur Pendragon was not what he expected, either. Not a pompous idiot who insisted upon the letter of the law and looked for reasons to take offense to a hollow shell of honor. He'd actually reacted to defend his prisoner – a man with magic – from a stranger. And he'd _apologized_. He'd blinked once at the suggestion that Gwaine be excused his infiltration of Camelot's citadel and allowed to join them. Maybe it was a question of keeping a potential enemy where he could see him and act immediately to neutralize him if need be. But maybe not.

 _You like him_ , Gwaine had accused Merlin. But these last few moments of observing their interactions told him, the feeling was mutual, whether Arthur was aware of that or not.

Sir Leon glanced at him again as they descended behind the princes, and it made his skin itch to think he was being evaluated in turn. Gwaine said, grabbing the first thing that came to mind, "So – a goblin?"

"That's what we concluded, based on its appearance and other characteristics," Leon said mildly, not giving him any real information on what happened, or why. Canny, but not belligerent. Interesting.

"And a griffon?" Gwaine added.

"Captured a couple of years ago, right here in the citadel," Leon said. "We had many casualties…"

Merlin glanced back at them, aware of their conversation. "Griffons can't be killed except by magic. They're impervious to ordinary weapons."

Gwaine thought Arthur was listening too, though his stride didn't slow and he didn't turn around. He goaded, "And you let it get all the way to the heart of the kingdom before you stopped it?"

Arthur ignored him. Leon remarked, "Griffons have _wings_ …"

"I heard about a troll, too," Gwaine said. His straightest, strongest arrow, verbally.

Arthur stopped at the bottom of the stair and turned to halt Gwaine with a hard look – so abruptly that Leon had to catch himself, and Merlin passed Arthur by two steps before alerting and turning back.

Gwaine met Arthur's steely blue glare for a moment, respected his composure and resolve – not denying, but promising to uphold honor in whatever way was necessary. So Gwaine spread his hands in surrender, satisfied with what he'd gleaned from the prince's reaction. "That's all I heard."

Merlin clearly hadn't, but read enough of Arthur's stance to guess at Pendragon's perturbation and venture a deflection. "I've never encountered troll magic. But I'm told it's strong, and… unclean."

Leon made a sound like he'd strangled a chagrined laugh, and Arthur transferred his silent gaze to his knight, tipping a disapproving eyebrow.

"I'm sorry, Sire," Leon apologized to his prince. "It's just… _unclean_ is such an appropriate description."

Gwaine resolved to get Leon drunk and pry for details, someday.

Arthur swiveled to Merlin, and strode on. "The griffon is just through here."

Gwaine hung back a pair of steps as they passed through an arched doorway to a cavernous chamber lit by a torch on the wall by the door, throwing looming and violent shadows into the corners and up to the vaulted ceiling.

Magic was chancy stuff – he knew very little of the theory and even less of the specifics for his own prince, and these creatures. And he regretted teasing Arthur about the griffon, because it was as big as a house. The body and tail and back legs were of a lion, the front legs ended in three clawed toes, and the head and wings were eagle-like. If eagles had eyes the size of dinner plates, and a beak that could take a man's head off halfway down his chest.

And it _lunged_ , shrieking a sound like a saw on glass.

Only Arthur didn't flinch; Leon's hand flew to the hilt of his sword; Gwaine's entire body wrenched around and he cleared four inches of blade before he saw the chains and cuffs that hobbled the creature's legs, locked securely – so far – to a stone wall that looked like bedrock rather than laid block.

Merlin jerked like he'd been struck, and behind him, Gwaine couldn't see his expression. But when Arthur glanced aside at him, his gaze stuck on the younger prince's face.

He said sardonically, as Merlin had said when he burst into the cell, this morning. "Please don't panic."

"No, I'm not," Merlin said, and his voice sounded breathless. He didn't look away as the griffon beat its wings and fought the chains a moment, shrilling out another ear-shredding cry.

Gwaine wondered whether a muzzle was possible, because it was definitely a good idea.

Then he thought of the delicate silver necklace at Merlin's throat. That made him uncomfortable, and he blurted out, "So are we going to kill this thing, or what?"

Even more awkward was the way all three looked at him; Merlin's lips were pressed white, and the skin around his eyes pinched.

"Because you said," Gwaine excused whatever mistake they thought he'd made, "it can only be killed with magic? And it's deadly-dangerous?"

Arthur looked at Merlin. "It would be faster."

"Easier, too," Merlin countered. "But not right. It's not his fault he doesn't belong here."

"No, but perhaps it deserves punishment for the deaths it's caused. It had a taste for human flesh, when it was free," Arthur said.

 _Nasty_ , Gwaine thought.

Merlin gestured. "Do you think it even understands that?"

For a moment they all watched the creature struggle with its bonds, then droop exhausted, flanks heaving for air. Head down, but eyeing them all the same. Clearly it recognized its plight, and took them for enemies, but all wild animals caught in a trap behaved so, when the hunter approached.

"The troll was clever," Leon said. "Its sole motivation was greed. Like the goblin."

Gwaine gave his opinion, "You don't kill a horse for kicking a man in the head and killing him."

Arthur gave him a brooding glance from under his brows. "You hunt and kill a wolf or bear that stalks a village because it's old or injured and it's turned into a man-eater."

Merlin, Gwaine abruptly realized, had moved closer to the griffon. Just beyond the reach of the chains around its legs, close enough to touch the cruelly curved beak that strained forward – well within the range of the powerful wings, to knock him to the ground before trampling or devouring him. His hands were up, palms toward the creature, fingers spread, his shadow stamped over the griffon.

"What are you-" Arthur started, alarmed.

The wings quivered; the rest of the griffon's body stilled, all attention on the sorcerer who looked tiny in comparison. They were so close Gwaine hardly dared breathe, in case the griffon's temper was set off again by the offense.

"Yeah, I think I can do it." Merlin spoke softly, but Gwaine thought Arthur and Leon might have been holding their breath, too; his words echoed clear in the shadowy chamber.

"Send it back to the realm it came from?" Arthur questioned.

Merlin turned to give them an optimistic smile over his shoulder, one hand still extended to the beak in a way that made Gwaine want to snatch him back.

"And if it doesn't work?" Arthur continued, skeptical – but in a respectful way, Gwaine thought. "Men were killed trying to control it long enough to chain it in here – if your portal doesn't work, it might get free in the forest, and then-"

"If that happens, I'll enchant the weapons to kill it," Merlin said, a bit grimly.

Arthur turned a look on Leon momentarily. "Bring spears."

"Javelins," Leon agreed, watching the griffon.

" _Pikes_ ," Gwaine suggested, with feeling. Keep the men as far from those claws and that beak as possible.

"Merlin," Arthur said thoughtfully. Merlin dropped his hand and returned to them. "The griffon isn't threatening us. Not like the serkets in the forest of Essetir, or the Questing Beast."

The sorcerer made a face at him. "I'm not going to drive a hard bargain and say I'm only getting rid of one sort of creature in exchange for my freedom, and leave the rest of them to their fate to cross the border back to my home. If I can, I'll do them all – including the goblin."

Behind Gwaine at the side of the door, low against the wall opposite the griffon, something bumped wood against stone, and _grumbled_.

Gwaine yelped an expletive, jolting and twisting away at the same time, hand leaping to his sword-hilt again. It was a thigh-high cask, two hand-spans in width, a cylinder sided with eight flat panels. It tipped and mumbled to itself, again; Gwaine could swear he heard Merlin snicker.

"The goblin's in there for now," Arthur said, sounding suspicious neutral. He passed Gwaine on his way out the door, and-

 _I swear, if he so much as twitches an eyelash in amusement-_

continued on toward the stair, followed by Merlin, though Sir Leon waited to keep Gwaine from behind left behind unsupervised.

"So the rumors aren't exaggerated," Gwaine said to him, taking the stairs two at a time to re-establish bravado and catch up with the princes. "Strange things happen in Camelot all the time?"

"Not _all_ the time," Leon contradicted without offense. "And, I'm sure the rumors _are_ exaggerated. You know what men are like when they've been drinking."

"Chatty as laundry-maids," Gwaine agreed, with a suspicious glance sideways at his companion. Had there been a jab at him hidden in that comment? He decided he didn't mind, after all, if it was evidence that a knight of Camelot could have a sense of humor.

Arthur didn't lead them back to the cell where they'd been keeping Merlin, but to a little room with an irregular doorway, tucked under the stair.

An armory, Gwaine glimpsed around the princes in the lead – and there was someone waiting for them there. A shorter man with a quiet air, dark-skinned and armed as a blacksmith, and a smile warmed his face when they entered. Loitering in the doorway, Gwaine recognized him as the man who'd given him directions to the Rising Sun.

"Merlin," the blacksmith said, immediately and familiarly – though he gave a little bow to Arthur, and exchanged friendly nods with Sir Leon at the same time. "How's your arm? Gwen tells me it's fine, but-"

"It's fine," Merlin answered easily, in the same manner, sauntering up to clasp the blacksmith's hand. "Gaius is supposed to be coming down later to take out the stitches."

"He's bringing books, too," Arthur warned the younger prince. "If you can be ready by tomorrow?"

"By tomorrow, I'll be as ready as I can be." Merlin turned the words around to answer. "Maybe Gwaine will help me research?"

"Can he read?" Arthur said, raising a sardonic eyebrow at Gwaine by the door.

"Yes," he answered good-humoredly, "Gwaine can read."

"Nice to meet you, Gwaine," the quiet blacksmith interjected, with a knowing smile. "I'm Elyan. I see you found who you were looking for, after all?"

Gwaine shrugged, not answering the question, and grinning when all three of the others cast looks between him and the smith who evidently was their friend in spite of class status with varying degrees of suspicion.

"We met in town yesterday," Elyan explained to Prince Arthur. "I directed him to the tavern."

Arthur grunted, moving closer to the anvil the blacksmith leaned one elbow on. It was affixed to a sturdy block at the far end of a central table, cleared now but intended as an organizational point for preparations. Around the wall were spear-racks and sword-racks, shield-displays and an array of heavier weapons – maces, flails, spiked axes. Gwaine coveted, for a brief moment; it had been years and with his father, since he'd trained with anything but a sword or sword-and-dagger combination.

"Leon and I will organize a troop, and bring the griffon and the goblin out to the Forrest of Essetir at first light tomorrow morning," Arthur said, addressing them all. "We'll set up camp if we have to, and you can take whatever time you need with your portals and realms. Gwaine, if you're coming, we'll be glad of an extra sword in defense."

"You expect that will be necessary?" Gwaine said, even though he knew the reputation of that area.

"Prepare for the worst, and hope for the best," Leon remarked.

"The griffon first, and then the goblin," Merlin said, like he was talking to himself. He chewed his lip a moment, staring down at the bare tabletop. "That kind of magic will probably attract serkets, but I don't think anyone really knows what motivates a Questing Beast to come or go or stay."

"And the Knights?" Arthur said. To Gwaine's ear, the word sounded capitalized with significance, though he didn't know why.

"Probably enchant some of the spears or javelins or pikes before we go," Merlin said. "Just in case."

He didn't look happy or eager, though, and Gwaine shifted his backbone against the doorway, feeling it incumbent upon him to point out, "What about that chain blocking his magic, then?"

Instead of either looking at him, the princes met each other's eyes. Arthur's lips twisted slightly. "Gaius doesn't know how to get it off. And my father won't tell me." Merlin's shoulders slumped a bit, and Arthur's grin grew more defined. "So I invited Elyan here to try his hand. Or his tools, rather."

Elyan showed his teeth in a wide smile, lifting hammer and chisel into the air. "Brute force."

"Oh, hells," Merlin said, cheerfully distressed.

Gwaine couldn't help smiling in a sort of wonderful disbelief, as he moved where he could watch the proceedings without being in the way. These two were nothing like what he expected, as individuals or in their interactions with each other.

Merlin bent trustingly over the anvil, and Arthur pushed his hair one way and his collar the other, clearing the way for Elyan to position his tools. They spoke in shortened sentences, quiet and focused.

"Like that…"

"No, here."

"Can you… yes, just there."

"If I can turn it a little…"

Merlin joked, "Just don't take off my head, yeah?"

Gwaine went on tiptoe to make sure the chisel's sharp edge rested between the links of the chain that did not have much slack, rather than between the bones of Merlin's neck – and caught Leon doing the same, out of the corner of his eye.

Then Arthur said tersely down to Merlin, "Don't move."

Elyan steadied and stilled himself, then raised the hammer and brought it down with all the force and intent of an executioner, muscles bulging beneath his plain white shirt and leather apron.

A spark struck, and exploded into a blinding flash. Elyan's hammer rebounded, carrying him several staggering steps back when he didn't let go. Arthur yelped and released Merlin like he'd been burned, barely catching himself from falling on his backside.

Merlin slithered bonelessly off the anvil to the floor, and Gwaine banged his hip on the table trying to leap past Leon to keep his eyes on his prince.

No blood. Okay, calm down, no blood.

Merlin groaned and stirred, and Arthur was kneeling over him, gently moving collar and hair once again to check him, then supporting Merlin's neck and helping draw him up to a sitting position.

"I'm all right," Merlin said breathlessly, whether it was true or not.

His head was still bent; Arthur fingered the chain at the nape of his neck. "There's a dented link, but it didn't break."

"Let's _not_ try that again," Merlin said immediately, and Arthur grunted, dissatisfied.

Elyan, wide-eyed, stepped up and offered a hand to Merlin, who accepted the aid of the blacksmith's strength without seeming to help himself much. And he wavered in catching his balance to stand on his own, as Arthur unfolded himself to standing beside him.

Gwaine was suddenly glad he was planning to be locked in the cell with Merlin for another day and night. If the prince wasn't going to worry about taking care of himself like he should, someone else had to. Gwaine found he didn't mind the prospect, not for this prince, who probably would never think to order someone to.

"Merlin?" Arthur asked, and it was the _way_ he said the younger man's name. _I'm_ _sorry_ and _Are you all right_ and _Can we continue or should we scrap the current plan_.

"I think…" Merlin cleared his throat. "I think it's damaged the link of magic, too. It's still there, but… I can probably do more past the interference? I can try testing it-" Arthur made a negative noise, and Merlin added with an impudence that reassured, "Later, in the cell. I'll see what Gaius thinks."

"Don't overdo it," Arthur warned.

"I'll see to that," Gwaine volunteered. His voice felt strangely rough.

Merlin gave him a grateful smile – immediately ruined by the grimace he made, fingertips exploring his neck and the chain still around it. Oblivious to that, Arthur met Gwaine's eyes, weighed him, and nodded in acceptance and thanks.

Gwaine felt a little shiver aligning the bones and joints all through his body – part of him perfectly content and part of him screaming warnings against trusting that feeling.

What had he gotten himself into?

 **A/N: Bit of a line stolen from "Cutting Edge". Yes, Doug can read.**


	22. Second Chances

**Chapter 22: Second Chances**

Merlin was glad breakfast for two was waiting for them in the cell. Gwaine was both keen-eyed and perceptive and he seemed unusually intent on Merlin's well-being for a self-proclaimed exile.

"You all right?" he asked, eyeing Merlin as he eased himself down to sitting on the cot.

He didn't think he'd betrayed himself with wincing or hesitation or clumsiness. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, you keep saying that…" And Gwaine kept watching.

The soles of Merlin's feet prickled like he was walking on nails. The big veins inside his upper arms ached, and his fingers were numb; his teeth were unbearably sensitive and his eyes burned in their sockets no matter how many times he rubbed them.

Damn Uther and damn his necklace.

The effects of the Endel-Easnes resisting removal wore off within the hour, though, and as the meal-tray was empty and Gaius hadn't arrived yet and Gwaine was inclined to fill the silence with inappropriate stories – what reaction was he hoping to provoke from Merlin, shock or embarrassment or laughter? – Merlin turned his attention to testing his magic again, as he had the first morning.

"Do you use it when you fight?" Gwaine asked.

Questions distracted, but he'd been taught to focus in spite of his surroundings, and concentration held. The swift punch-past-throttling-effect magic still worked the same, something explosive like slamming all the loose straw into the stone at the end of the cell resulted in the same quick-choke feeling it had the past ten days he'd worn the chain.

"Not the way the king would like," Merlin murmured, well aware that Gwaine was contemplating the bits of straw like they were poisoned darts. "I think he imagined… me striking whole troops with lightning at once, or… throwing fireballs like I was my own damn catapult or something."

Gwaine looked at him. "You can do that?"

"Probably. I've never tried." Merlin focused on the blanket over his bed, the slow consistent magic necessary to straighten and smooth, and – it was a weaker squeeze at his neck.

"So how do you fight with magic?"

"Small ways." Merlin stretched the muscles of his neck, shook out the tension in his shoulders from his arms. "Supplementing the warriors' skills they taught me." Gwaine made a noise that made Merlin grin and admit, "That they drummed and scolded into me."

"I don't imagine it was easy, being his heir," Gwaine observed, squatting on his haunches to watch Merlin lift the meal-tray into the air, without much more than the rattle of dishes a serving-girl might make if she was nervous. Not quick and light and sure, but still… fairly competent.

"I don't imagine it was easy for him, raising me," Merlin countered wryly, dividing focus to lift the various covers and spoons and plates, separately.

Tremors of protest rippled through him, and sweat stood out on his skin, making the healing cut on his arm itch. Enough to be alarming, and the longer he held it, the more black spots danced in his vision and the further away his feet felt, but air and blood still passed through his neck the way they were supposed to.

"That's why I told him to keep you. You were – just what he wanted." Merlin continued over Gwaine's hiss of objection. "He didn't know what to do with me. Sick to my stomach at the thought of… hurting someone with the sword they put in my hand. And always having to ask… one more time, if I could use magic for the land. _Crops, boy_ -" he imitated Thurston's irritated rasp with his own increasing breathlessness – " _focus on your swordsmanship. It's the only way you'll hold your land, and take more_."

"Caerleon has poor land," Gwaine admitted. "I didn't think so til I left it, but…"

Merlin let the tray lower to the floor again, and tipped his new friend a knowing glance, wiping sweat and blinking his eyes clear. "Damn Camelot, don't know how good they have it."

"Too right," Gwaine agreed.

And then the _key_ was scratching in the lock of the door; Gwaine's knees cracked as he pushed himself upright expectantly. Gaius in his blue robe, case swinging from his shoulder and books in his arms, ducked through the doorway, straightening to survey them both with a stern eyebrow.

"Good morning," Merlin told him cheerfully. "This is Gwaine. Arthur told you about him, didn't he?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gaius huffed his slow way down his tower stairs, regretting age and his knees and the fact that Arthur had specifically prohibited him from sending his younger, stronger assistant on this errand. Gwen was capable of removing stitches, and probably could have carried twice as many books as Gaius managed.

 _Merlin's not alone_ , Arthur had said, with a peculiar set to his jaw. _Boyhood acquaintance from Caerleon, come to rescue him from captivity – only Merlin wouldn't go._ And, _I don't want Guinevere to have to handle that_.

Gaius harrumphed to himself, unsurprised that Merlin had remained in Camelot's cells. Merlin's father had the same peculiar sense of honor; it didn't have to be the mysterious forces of destiny at work.

Or so he told himself til the cell-guard unlocked the door and Gaius pushed it open to see that the boyhood acquaintance from Caerleon was _not_ a stranger to _him_.

Clearly he was Geart's son. Gaius knew this even before Merlin's introduction, _This is Gwaine_. His old heart skipped and stuttered in his chest, and he was twenty-five years in the past, seeing another pair of young men, thick as thieves in their mischief and staunch in sterling integrity. How many times hadn't he come across Geart and Balinor, dark heads bent close over some discussion, only to have them look up in exactly the same way?

"Yes," Gaius managed. "Arthur mentioned your visitor."

Geart's boy was dressed little better than a peasant, his father's sword at home on his hip, and he gave Gaius the angelically-impish grin he'd perfected while he still had only two tiny teeth in his mouth. Riding his father's forearm and secure in the knowledge that his papa would let nothing happen to him.

"Is that my book?" Merlin said with interest and delight, hopping up from a seat on his cot and crossing the cell as Gaius took the steps downward heavily. "See, Gwaine, I told you Arthur was different from his father."

"He just wants magic out of Camelot," Gwaine scoffed, as Merlin relieved Gaius of his load. "These creatures, and you."

Merlin made a rude noise, attention on the books, as he turned back to the cot, juggling his out of the way of the one Gaius had brought. "Phylum of Cambria," he said sardonically.

Gaius missed the reason for his amusement. "I found various references in certain others of my books," he said, loosing the strap of the case over his shoulder. "I didn't carry all the relevant books, but there are notes on a parchment, there. I hope they prove useful."

Merlin hummed interest – one book cradled on each forearm as he sank to the edge of his cot, fingertips delicately fumbling to turn pages in the Bestiary.

"First, though, I should ask how you are feeling after Elyan's attempt to remove that chain," Gaius said, seating himself on the cot next to Merlin, and having to spread his hand over the page to gain the young sorcerer's attention.

"I'm fine now," Merlin said innocently. Gwaine cleared his throat pointedly, and Merlin admitted, "It was unpleasant – I guess I blacked out for a second? But I really am fine now."

Gaius made a skeptical noise, but he well knew how young men resisted medical attention they didn't believe they needed. From a cursory visual examination, he could detect no signs of ill health or injury. "Well, then. Let's have a look at those stitches."

Gwaine reached forward. "Let me take your book, then, mate."

Merlin relinquished the tome absent-mindedly, shifting the Bestiary to his lap. "I don't think there's much in there on portals, I'll have to do it from memory…"

Gaius rolled Merlin's sleeve to his shoulder, baring the healing pink scar and row of darker stitches. Gwaine made a noise of disgusted sympathy, but his eyes were keen sympathy for the injury. Merlin ignored him, and Gaius opened his case for the tools necessary to snip and pull the gut-thread.

"From memory?" Gaius asked, to distract his patient from the discomfort of tugging so close to the still-healing wound.

It wasn't necessary; Merlin was distracting himself. He hummed noncommittally. "We saw a unicorn, once. That sort of creature can remain harmlessly in our world for its lifetime, but… my tutor focused our lessons on portals for a few weeks after that. If I get a few words wrong, I can try again til I remember it correctly. _Tha rumas wuldorgesteald_ … something…"

Gaius was surprised. So was Gwaine, but more for the mention of _unicorn_ , which he mouthed wide-eyed at Gaius, than for the younger man's memory. But something of their amazement caught Merlin's attention.

"What?" he said, looking from Gwaine to Gaius.

"It's nothing." Gaius focused on snipping and pulling and discarding the bits of fiber that held the edges of the shallow wound together to heal. "I was reminded of certain times years ago, when I had an apprentice. When your mother wrote me of your magic and asked my advice. I responded that she should send you to me when you were old enough."

Merlin probably had known that, and his mind was occupied following other information. It was Gwaine who tipped the appropriated book of magic to his chest to give Gaius a challenging look. "How much were you going to be able to teach him of magic _here_?"

"Precious little," Gaius admitted.

Finishing his work clearing the healing wound, he smeared a bit of ointment over the tender reddened line and prepared to wrap it lightly but securely. Merlin stuck his elbow out helpfully, paying no conscious attention, and Gaius felt a bit bitter, suddenly. A bit betrayed by life and destiny, potential disappointed by the king he'd tried to be loyal to – and he turned it back on the knight's son.

"And you yourself – do you consider that you became the most noble knight and the most skilled warrior you could be, in Caerleon's wastes, rather than training with the knights of Camelot?"

Gwaine gave him a scowl of puzzlement. Merlin's thumb, following where his eyes read the parchment Gaius had annotated, slowed and stilled, and he raised his head with a similar expression. Gwaine demanded, "What do you mean?"

Gaius focused on winding the last of the bandage and tying it off. "I knew your father. Sir Geart."

Puzzlement became astonishment on the faces of both young men, and Gaius allowed his eyebrow to quirk in amusement.

"Sir Geart was a knight of Camelot in his youth," he added. "He was outspoken, and Uther didn't appreciate that, or him. You weren't old enough to remember, probably, when your father was banished, but Balinor was devastated."

"Knight of Camelot," Gwaine said dazedly.

Merlin's spine drew straight slowly and deliberately for another reason. "Balinor was my father's name."

Gaius was beginning to enjoy himself. Not a word about what sort of magic Balinor possessed, nor a hint that he still lived, ignorant of his own son. But _this_ should be allowed. "Yes, they were friends. Before the birth of Camelot's prince and the tragedy that sent your father fleeing toward Ealdor. Balinor used to carry Gwaine around on his shoulders. Geart teased that you preferred Balinor to him."

Gwaine and Merlin looked at each other. "You knew my father," Merlin said, awestruck.

"I wish I could remember him," Gwaine said, in a similar tone. "Huh. Life's strange, innit? Almost as if the two of us were destined to be mates, and no king can stand in our way."

Merlin snorted and Gwaine grinned, not taking himself seriously. But Gaius was satisfied with a subtle shift in the room, hinted at by the way Merlin glanced at Gwaine, again opening the book of magic to scan the pages, and by the way Gwaine cast a sidelong look at Merlin who'd turned back to Gaius.

"Your notes mention the incantation that I recall, and the Bestiary refers to the meditative focus unique to each creature that can open a one-directional portal."

"Not intended for human beings to pass through," Gaius noted, though that was written, and Merlin nodded.

"No danger of accidents, then, for any of us," he said. "But what about the location? The notes are vague. We haven't any sacred sites in Caerleon – I was taught these theories as theories. Alator mentioned some places, but nowhere I've ever been, or plotted on a map."

"I have thought on that, also," Gaius said, straightening his spine with an internal creak and groan, and bracing his hands on his knees. "There are a few possible sites that I am aware of. One that the prophets of the Triple Goddess have claimed, and one that requires an external focus we don't have, or else a single specific day of the year."

"What day?" Merlin asked, thinking.

"Summer solstice," Gaius said. "Still three months away."

Merlin grimaced. "Is there a third option?"

"Some say that the bridge to the Fisher King's lands has become a portal, taking a traveler to a blasted wasteland rather than the fertile seaside kingdom of history," Gaius said. "No one's tested that theory in two generations at least. But there is a fourth option, about half a day's ride from here. The Valley of the Fallen Kings."

Merlin cocked his head. " _Bregum agryndende mearcdenu_?" he said, speaking the words in the Old Tongue, giving them an alternate connotation in translation.

"You've heard of it," Gaius said, surprised. And then, not so much. The boy had been educated as a prince and a sorcerer, after all.

"From my tutor," Merlin said, his expression twisted in an effort to remember. "He said that… men have called it an accursed place. He also said it is the birthplace of magic itself, and time turns upon a pivot there."

"I have heard those things said also," Gaius told him. "It is a place where you must be very careful."

"I'm always careful," Merlin said, indignantly innocent. Gwaine snorted an expression of his incredulity without even looking up. "Anyway, you've also written that dawn is the best time for the portal to open," Merlin said. "That was your interpretation, too?"

"Dawn and the hours following, and the ease of the process diminishes as the morning wanes," Gaius agreed.

"But half a day's ride – if we leave at first light, like Arthur said…" Merlin looked up at Gwaine, who paused his lazy pacing with the book to meet his gaze. "We'll not get there in time. And have to wait til the day after tomorrow, and… something might go wrong in the meantime."

"It's full moon tomorrow," Gwaine suggested. "If we ride tonight, we can catch a few hours' sleep in camp, and you can work your magic at dawn tomorrow morning."

Merlin looked at Gaius. "I hope that's all right with Arthur?" he said. "I really don't fancy being locked up with Gwaine another full day."

"Hey!" Gwaine protested. "I've been told I'm excellent company-"

"You've been lied to," Merlin countered dryly.

"It's better than being locked up by yourself, isn't it?"

Merlin didn't answer, but as he kept his eyes on Gaius, his grin agreed with the son of his father's friend.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen kept her eyes on the tray in her hands as she rounded the corner, balancing the small pitcher of watered wine and the soup in its dish, and almost ran into someone anyway.

"Oh!" she said, lifting her eyes to a familiar vest, familiar shirt-laces undone, up to the crooked-sheepish grin and the sparkling blue eyes she could admit in the privacy of her own thoughts that she loved.

"Guinevere!" Arthur said, extending his hands like he wasn't sure if he should try to help steady the tray or leave well enough alone.

She noticed that he was wearing riding gloves. And had a provisional drawstring bag slung over one shoulder.

"I'm glad to see you, actually," he went on, as she adjusted her grip and focused her eyes on his. There was something alert about him, something ready to command or act, and she raised her brows questioningly.

"Are you leaving? It's-" she hefted the tray – "dinnertime."

"I've eaten," he assured her. "And yes, I'm leaving the citadel. I might be back tomorrow evening, or the next day, not sure yet. Sir Ectyr will have command, and Gaius will take care of my father. There's no reason to expect trouble, all but a few of Cenred's mercenaries have crossed the border out of Camelot, so…"

So he was leaving in the evening, not at first light or dawn, and he didn't look irritated or bored.

"A hunting trip?" she hinted gently at her curiosity.

His crooked grin grew, drawing her into some secret he wasn't going to specify. "That's the story. Leon will be with me, and… there won't be any reason for you to visit Merlin while I'm gone."

Merlin was going with them, then. She asked delicately, "Will I have occasion to visit Merlin after you return?"

"I'm sure," he said. "Helva is on the opposite side of the kingdom from the Forest of Essetir – we'll come back here before he goes there."

Helva was where his tutor was. Gwen wasn't sure why Merlin would go there rather than Caerleon, if he was free to go anywhere, but Arthur's troop was heading to Essetir, then. Toward the valley of the Fallen Kings and the White Mountains beyond. But she was aware of the people moving in proximity to them, and the likelihood of an overheard word passed along as gossip.

"Morgana will be glad to know where you've gone," she said deliberately, letting her eyes speak for her. "Please be careful, all of you? With your… hunting."

"We will," he promised easily. But he knew as well as she did, that didn't mean nothing would happen. But still he delayed. "How is she, really?" he asked, lowering his voice. "I haven't seen her since yesterday morning."

 _Yesterday morning_ was the goblin Morgana had freed, and the sorcerer-prince who'd dropped unconscious helping them cage the creature, and his queen who was here to gauge his well-being before negotiating for ransom being ordered precipitously to leave by an unsettlingly ill king.

Since yesterday morning, Morgana had been best pleased to bury herself in the dusty book of magic she'd taken from the hidden room in the library. Gwen privately suspected she considered it _hers_ ; Morgana had tried a few minor – amazing, beautiful – spells, and had been genuinely ecstatic when they worked.

Gwen didn't think she'd ever seen her so happy. So herself, without any need for a single layer of artifice.

"She's been preoccupied," Gwen hedged. Fully aware that Morgana had been committing a capital crime over and over in her chamber, and that she herself could be beheaded for knowing and not reporting – not to mention marveling and encouraging.

But Arthur was now in charge. She couldn't see him condemning either of them, and not only because they were his friends and he knew they meant no harm.

"She said…" He shifted closer, bending over her shoulder so that she felt the subtle wash of his body heat over her sleeve. "That magic should be free. I know she can't mean all of it, but… it's treason to think, there might be good magic that we should allow."

Gwen looked up into his eyes from inches away and thought there would be other gossip to circulate, if they stood so close for too much longer. Good thing she had her hands full of Morgana's dinner-tray, or she might be tempted to use them otherwise. Inappropriately.

She said, "Do _you_ think there might be good magic that we should allow?"

He set his jaw, a bit of stubborn resistance showing; she understood why, and thanked her lucky stars that she'd never disagreed with her father upon matters of principle - how complicated and heart-rending that must be.

Instead of answering her question, he dropped his eyes and said, "If I'm to be regent, then I'll be the one hearing accusations and presiding over trials."

And innocence could be found and pardons be pronounced and precedence set. Gwen gave him her fullest, most encouraging smile. "You're going to be really good at it, you know."

His smile was flat and self-deprecating. "In any case, I've got to deal with negotiation for a hostage release, first."

And this trip had to do with that, somehow. "Remember what I said," Gwen warned him, shifting her weight away from him and down the corridor that led to Morgana's chambers. He backed away from her.

"We'll be as safe as we can be. And we'll be back in a day or two – and see you then."

Gwen watched him swing about and stride away even though every time she did that she loved him just a little bit more, no matter how it hurt to remind herself of impossibilities. As long as he didn't fall in love with someone else… and she knew such thinking assumed he was already in love…

She shook herself and hurried on, scolding internally, _You're not a silly lovesick maid, stop acting like one!_

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana turned a page of the book cradled in the silk of her lap, shifting her weight slightly in the high-backed chair she'd curled up in. She resisted the urge to lean in and inhale the peculiar scent of dust and old ink and the tingle of magic. Several sneezing fits had taught her the inadvisability of indulging that impulse.

Why hadn't Morgause ever told her about these spells? Vaguely she'd been aware that such as them had to exist, but Morgause had been impatient with such trivial matters, and it had taken that caustic remark of Merlin's – and the treasure that was this book – to open Morgana's eyes to how very little of practical use her sister had taught her.

 _Forbearnan. Thurhhaele. Tospringe._

 _Aweardian-me._

The letters blurred and melded, and Morgana looked through the pages into her memories of the second magic-user she'd become familiar with. He was so different from Morgause – and not in the obvious ways of male and female – but in some ways quite the same. Passionate about perceived injustice and certain of being right.

She could visualize the way his eyes flashed with indignation, crinkled with humor, warmed with conviction. She could picture his hands, slim and strong and expressive, she could recall the breadth and height of his shoulders, the way his body moved when he breathed, the way that breath tickled over her skin… the feel of his mouth that lit a thousand candles in her blood.

That feeling echoed through her, to rehearse the memory, but it seemed… slightly distant from Merlin himself. Aside from those feelings of physical attraction, she found him irritatingly idealistic, naïve for a barbarian, and… boyish.

Not for her, Annis had said, and Morgana agreed. If there was to be anyone for her, it would be someone the opposite of Cenred. Someone who didn't want her to be anything but herself, or act to an expected manner. Someone that made her feel safe, who made… anyplace feel like home.

And why was she thinking about that, now?

Morgana shook herself out of the girlish fantasy. She should be learning magic while she had the opportunity, because soon there would be news for Morgause, and then… and then…

She jumped as the door across the room swung open, though no one would enter without express permission but Gwen – and it was Gwen, balancing Morgana's dinner on a tray, as she'd requested.

"Gwen," Morgana said, sitting up straight and leaning over the book on her lap. "I think I've figured out how to place that shield spell Merlin gave me on someone else."

Her maid set the tray down on the table, coming willingly to Morgana's chair, interest lighting her dark eyes. No fear, no hate, no betrayal – though Gwen was convinced Morgana should tell Arthur, she'd kept Morgana's secret.

Morgause had been wrong, about that.

She stopped herself from forming the next logical thought – _what else_ …

But Gwen let Morgana cast the spell on her, hand and forearm, and even tested – hesitantly and gingerly – with a dagger, and a candle flame. And beamed with pride in Morgana's accomplishments and abilities when the protective spell proved effective, and no cut or burn showed. Morgana didn't think she'd ever felt closer to Gwen, and relished the feeling – overshadowed as it was by the worry, _what if they find out what I did against Uther and Camelot…_

Wasn't that backwards? She shouldn't feel sorry or guilty for that, if it was the right thing to do. But Morgause _wasn't_ never wrong… Merlin seemed to think Morgana needed protection from her sister – and she'd questioned what Morgause valued in their relationship, a sister or a spy.

"Do you… believe the law is wrong, then?" Morgana asked Gwen, who was playing with the candle flame on the table, fascinated.

Her friend stopped to consider. "I… guess I do," she said. "But… well, I don't know. I mean, we all helped Mordred to freedom, didn't we? And even when your magic was just dreams, I never would have said to anyone, that's magic. Gaius would never have admitted it to anyone who could or would harm you."

"Gaius," Morgana snorted. "He wanted to suppress it and hide it."

"Of course he did," Gwen said matter-of-factly.

Morgana blinked.

"Wouldn't that have been best for you, if it was possible?" Gwen went on.

"To… deny what I could do?" Morgana said. "To always be afraid someone would see something and tell the wrong person?"

"Isn't that why you left?" Gwen asked, leaning one hand on the tabletop and tipping her head in a sympathetic way. "Weren't you happy, where you were this last year?"

"Where I was-" Morgana began, then halted abruptly. In Cenred's castle she'd been confined to a far greater extent than here in Camelot. She hadn't learned much except how to suppress the obvious visible expression of her magic, not even how to protect or defend herself. There had been the fear there, too, that someone would see her and tell the wrong person, _Lady Morgana of Camelot is here_.

Why not declare her magic, disavow Uther, and remain in Cenred's kingdom openly, learning and practicing everything with her sister? Surely they could have used their magic for the people there, they could have built their strength enough to threaten Uther over the worst of his tyranny and excesses, they could have disrupted the executions and provided safe haven for those who wished to live with their magic in peace. And if Uther had brought his army to repossess Morgana, they could have fought him on the battlefield with Cenred's mercenaries, outnumbered and out-powered.

"It wasn't home," she finished lamely.

 _Home_ was her hope of Trevena, but she couldn't return to Trevena until she'd conquered Camelot, in heart or in fact, that had been her driving force since she'd been orphaned. Except now… things had changed.

"I think…" Gwen set her jaw, dropping into the nearest seat and leaning elbows on the tabletop to clasp her hands together. "I think you should tell Arthur. Tell him the dreams were magic, but you can do other things. He's on quite solid terms with Merlin, they're even going to-"

"I can't," Morgana interrupted, tension tightening her throat and drawing her shoulder-blades together. "I can't tell him. I can't tell Arthur."

Gwen hummed, her dark eyes keen and thoughtful, and then she half-stood, reaching for the lids that covered Morgana's dinner-tray. "Come and eat something before it gets cold."

Morgana's limbs were stiff from sitting so long, and her eyes felt dusty. It was good to hide the magic book in her desk, content with progress mastering and memorizing, and anticipating more tomorrow. And when she sat down to the savory stew and dumplings, she found she was agreeably hungry.

Gwen picked at some crumbs of cheese, avoiding Morgana's eyes. "Arthur isn't like his father."

Morgana pretended to ignore her, but it had been a long time since Gwen let that bother her.

"He's going to become regent, you know. The council will meet in a couple of days, after Arthur gets back, probably. Uther's not well, and Gaius doesn't know if he'll ever…" Gwen trailed off, then returned determinedly. "You should tell Arthur."

"And force him to deal with a confessed magic-user as the first act of his regency?" Morgana said, tossing her head. "He won't want to hear it. Not when his father's illness was caused by magic."

"He's fine with Merlin, Arthur knows it wasn't him," Gwen said immediately. "Are you worried – you can't possibly think he would suspect you of…"

Morgana shifted uncomfortably; the lumps of the stew at the bottom of the dish looked like the lumps in her stomach felt – cold and heavy. She wouldn't meet Gwen's eyes, wouldn't watch her begin to _suspect_ , even if she still believed Arthur wouldn't.

"Who you were with," Gwen said slowly. "This last year – who you were with. Did that person curse Uther to go mad?"

Morgana felt her face heat with tell-tale color, and it only got worse when Gwen said her name again with devastating reproach.

"Uther _loved_ you – more than Arthur, even, I sometimes thought. He _raised_ you-"

"He hired people to raise me," Morgana corrected tartly.

"Yes, but he treated you like you were his own daughter, he gave you everything you ever asked for," Gwen said, and her disappointment _hurt_. "Oh, Morgana." She didn't ask, _Did you know what they were planning_. She didn't ask, _were you part of it_ ; she didn't connect the king's illness to Cenred's attack.

But Arthur would.

Morgana hated feeling guilty, or ashamed. But she couldn't simply declare that she wasn't wrong, and charge ahead with her sister's plan. Which was to… remove Uther from the throne. And put Arthur in his place, if he could treat the issue of magic fairly and compassionately.

Done, and… done.

"Arthur will hate them for what they've done," she said slowly, sure that she should include herself. _Arthur will hate_ me…

"Arthur doesn't hate anyone," Gwen countered. "Not even Merlin – and he and his men were responsible for the deaths of several villagers. I think he was sorry – he might have told Arthur he was sorry. He's from Caerleon, but Arthur is still negotiating with him, getting him to do magic in return for his freedom. If you told Arthur and said you were sorry, I'm sure he would forgive you, too."

"Yes, well, Merlin was a stranger when he did those things," Morgana retorted. "He'll think what I did was treason."

Still Gwen didn't ask specifically, _What did you do_. She only sat and looked at Morgana, expecting her to think; Merlin had told her the same thing. So she couldn't help thinking.

Two days ago Merlin had said, _He listens to you. Could you talk him back around to considering it, and negotiating for it_. So evidently Arthur had somehow reconciled his father's hypocrisy with his own sense of duty – through the encounter with the goblin?

And then the pieces clicked into place, unlocking realization. Gwen had said, _They're even going to… when Arthur gets back…_

Morgana let the spoon fall with a clatter and shoved the tray back, sitting up straight. "Wait, do you mean Arthur has taken Merlin to, how did he put it – use his magic to open portals and send back various creatures who've gotten into the kingdom to cause trouble?"

"Oh." Gwen blinked; maybe she hadn't known the whole plan. "Yes, I guess they must have. Arthur said the story was, they were going hunting, and he didn't tell me right out that he was taking Merlin – but of course they'd keep something like that secret."

"Bloody hell," Morgana said peevishly, startling her maid's attention back to her. "I was going to ask to go along when they did that. It'll probably be amazing magic."

"And we haven't seen what Merlin can do," Gwen agreed, twisting her mouth in an expression of disappointment. "I mean, except for what happened with Gaius, but that wasn't… amazing. Elyan said he saw Merlin enchant Arthur's sword to fight the Knights of Medhir in the battle, but all it did was glow blue for a second, and then there was nothing to see. But it was really hard for him, with that necklace…" She trailed off, a wrinkle of worry between her brows.

Morgana had seen more. She'd seen him break the rowan enchantment and lay the bones of other knights back to an honorable rest, and fix the broken stone of their tombs. And that must have been what Arthur meant when he said, Merlin saved my life with magic, enchanting a sword to kill the Knights of Medhir because he really was against magic he termed dark.

"How long ago did they leave?" Morgana asked, leaving her chair to head for the wardrobe. She'd put on exactly what she'd worn the night of Cenred's attack, and who cared if it was ironic? "Maybe we can catch up with them." How long since Gwen had entered the room with the tray – and they'd sat playing with the spells of the book, dawdling over dinner?

"We can't," Gwen said, too decisively for Morgana's liking.

"It'll be a full moon," Morgana argued. "If we know where they were going, we can follow-"

"The Forest of Essetir," Gwen said. "That's what Arthur told me. And I know the serkets aren't nocturnal, but in the dark we might ride right into a nest and Arthur will have a troop of men with torches and crossbows and we won't. And there's the Questing Beast, no one knows-"

Morgana stopped listening, frozen in place with her hands on the wardrobe door-handles. _Stay out of the Forest of Essetir_ , Morgause had told her. _Nimueh is there_.

Arthur and Merlin didn't know, and they were riding there.

She whirled and snatched a handful of skirt out of her way, ignoring Gwen's startled cry. "Morgana!"

The door of her chamber swung wide, and she heard it bang into the wall behind her. Down the steps to the griffon landing, down the wider stairway… The lateness of the hour meant there were fewer people about to be scandalized by Morgana's headlong dash through the citadel – nowhere near the first time, though the last time was a while in the past – and the windows lining the outer wall were blurry and dark, showing spots of distant torchlight like vigil-candles, and little else.

Through the corridor, outside to the air chill with approaching dark. The sun was down and twilight was definite, though only a few stars twinkled in the gray overhead, and she could still see fairly clearly as far as the gate. For only a few more minutes, though.

The courtyard was still busy – servants who lived in town leaving, having been dismissed from finished duties; a handful of those who cleaned public rooms left deserted at night arriving. Sentries crossing, guards exchanging posts… Of course there was no sign of Arthur, or the troop he must have assembled, or Merlin. They might have been gone two or three hours already – they might have reached the dangerous and deceitful heart of Essetir already.

" _Morgana_!" Gwen called distantly after her. " _Where are you going_?"

Where was she going? Could she hurry to ready herself now, and go after Arthur to warn him of the danger posed to him by Nimueh? Or ready herself later, and sneak out to report to Morgause, some opportunity for more subterfuge and violence? Arthur didn't accept and approve of her – and maybe he never would – but neither would Morgause, if Morgana disagreed or refused to obey.

Which was actually, exactly like Uther had always treated her, she realized with a cold shock. Both of them imperiously claiming and assuming her loyalty and requiring her behavior to match, as a condition of love and affection.

She had never felt so utterly alone in the world. As a child she'd been ignorant of all she had to fear. As an adult, she couldn't lie on her bed and kick her feet and scream into her pillow until someone came to make it better.

And then someone did.

"Morgana?" It was a man's voice, medium-deep in timbre, soft and warmly rich in question.

She looked down and to the side, not recognizing the voice, distracted by the lack of title the knights of Camelot always used. Only Arthur and Uther said simply, Morgana.

He wore a black tunic over his chainmail, quadrants separated by a white cross under the golden dragon of Camelot – that was Trevena's heraldry. Freckles dusted the thin face upturned as he ascended toward her at the top of the stair, an expression of exhaustion charged with dawning hope. A scruff of honey-brown hair covered his jaw, matching the shaggy thatch pushed back from his face and brushing his shoulders.

Recognition washed over her like a bucket of hot water rinsing her in the bath – shocking, welcome, pleasurable.

"Acollyn?" she blurted, breathlessly incredulous.

His eyes – not so dark as Gwen's but darker than honey-brown – lit, and his grin crooked tremulously, and he came up the last steps two at a time. And she could not have said which one of them reached out first, but before she knew it, her arms were around his neck and his around her back, holding her close and tight, but gentle.

He was laughing, but there was a catch in his breathing – maybe on the point of tears. She avoided the cowl of chainmail at the base of his neck to bury her nose behind his ear, inhaling deeply. He smelled of sweat, and horse, and – oh, sweet heavens – the sea.

He smelled of home.

 **A/N: Sorry this is late! Rl was a monster this week, and tried to eat my soul… Also, I'm a little sorry to end on this note, reunion between Morgana and Acollyn, but the rest of the scene goes on a while and tension increases from here, so… we all gotta wait another week.**

 **I did some esoteric research into different planes of existence and how folks who believe in that think to access them. Chanting mantras in one way, so I generalized to fit Merlin's situation, and translated (clumsily) into Old English. The full incantation will be translated in the next chapter, I believe, but for now,** _ **Tha rumas**_ _ **wuldorgesteald**_ **means something like,** _ **Ranges of the (glorious realms)**_ **… And his translation of Valley of Fallen Kings (** _ **Bregum**_ _ **agryndende**_ _ **mearcdenu**_ **) is slightly altered to be "(Valley which serves as a boundary) of the (rulers/chiefs/kings/lords) (descended to the earth)". To give it the sense of being a magical border between realms… which makes sense for the Crystal Cave being what it is, and how Taliesin appears to Merlin even though he lived and died centuries earlier.**

 **The spells Morgana is reading are a few simple/familiar ones used in the series. For burning, healing, unlocking.**

 **Also, the oneshot "Their Sons' Fathers" included as the last chapter of my story "Renewed by Love" can serve as a prequel for this A/U. Because 'knight of Caerleon' has always seemed like something of an oxymoron to me…**


	23. Sunset to Sunrise

**Chapter 23: Sunset to Sunrise**

Morgana couldn't immediately count the years that had passed since she'd seen Acollyn – twelve, thirteen? – but she held him tight and breathed into the honey-brown hair behind his ear a piece of intimate truth, "I missed you."

He whispered hoarsely next to her ear, "Missed you too."

And then she recalled thinking, he might be a husband and father by now; she set her heels back on the ground and leaned away from him. He released her – still grinning, tears brightening his eyes, and pulled his arms back to give her a bow poignantly respectful and relieved, but not obsequious at all. Which relieved her; it would be unbearable for him of all people to treat her like the other young men of Camelot treated her, like a princess on a pedestal, an object to be admired and adored, but somehow not a real person with thoughts and feelings.

"How are you here?" she exclaimed, ridiculously happy – and comforted as she'd rarely felt since she'd been able to curl up in her father's arms. "It's been so long since I've seen you!"

"How am I here?" he returned. He was so much the same – eyes that _saw her_ and sweet-happy smile – but definitely a man. The scruff of beard didn't quite hide a firm square jaw; his chest was solid and his shoulders broad, though he stood about the same height above her as he always had. "How are _you_ here? A year ago Prince Arthur came to us to say you'd mysteriously disappeared, and had we seen you or received word of you because they had no leads. No notes, no tracks."

"Yes, I…" Morgana cringed internally and concluded, "I've returned."

"I'm so glad you're safe." He swayed toward her like he wanted to take her in his arms again to prove her presence to himself; she found herself wishing he would, in spite of propriety. "I almost couldn't believe it when Arthur sent word. I was north of the mountains again, and-"

"North of the mountains?" Morgana interrupted, giving her head a shake to indicate her lack of comprehension.

"Well," he faltered a bit. "Arthur's patrols couldn't venture beyond Camelot's borders without permission from the rulers of the lands he'd have to enter and cross, and if any of our enemies were involved that would give them warning to hide or move you, so – there were several of us, not just me, but… I've been searching for you."

For a moment more, comprehension eluded her. "All this time?" she said unsteadily. Horrified. "All _year_? Why would you – why would-"

Arthur had to, she knew. She hadn't dwelled on the consideration after Morgause had convinced her that because her friends in Camelot weren't magic, they wouldn't understand or accept. Because Uther hated and feared it and punished it by death, that even Arthur and Gwen would also hate and fear her, and betray her and deem it a virtue, and burning at the stake something she justly deserved. But Arthur would follow his father's orders and she assumed Uther would feel obligated to appear worried an appropriate length of time.

She hadn't thought at all about the reaction at Trevena, and remorse gnawed a hollow in the pit of her stomach.

"You are my lady," he said softly, dropping his eyes self-consciously – then looking up at her without lifting her chin. She noticed his eyelashes were long, thick, and curly. "You are Trevena's Lady, even though you are here. My father, your steward – everything's been ready for you. Waiting for you. For you to return to us."

"I've been waiting for that, too," she admitted, feeling heat rise to her cheeks at the unexpected avowal of unanticipated loyalty. And maybe the hint of a wish that Acollyn's expectations might be _special_ , the way she'd thought of him specially, over the years. "But Uther would not allow me to govern Trevena without a husband to be its lord."

He looked down again, shrugging his shoulders. "We'll wait."

For a moment, slightly awkward silence. She felt as if her reluctance to accept one of the many willing suitors in the court at Camelot and among the knights, someone not completely repulsive and therefore good enough, was somehow a disappointment to Trevena. But she couldn't have brought someone that she couldn't at least trust and respect – because then how could Trevena, Acollyn and everyone, trust and respect?

She looked out at the courtyard again, remembering why she'd rushed out here – Arthur and Merlin heading right toward Essetir and Nimueh and who knew then what would happen - but the courtyard was gathering shadows and the gate in the wall, leading to the lower town, was already indistinct. Too late…

"My lady?" Gwen murmured just behind her, in reminder.

Acollyn shifted – probably glancing at her maid – then inclined his head respectfully. "I apologize, my lady; I've interrupted. You were in a great hurry when you came out here just now – is there anything I can do to be of assistance to you?"

Morgana turned to look at him slowly, an idea dawning, forming, perfecting, and she felt her smile stretch wide. Whoever Arthur had left in charge of the citadel's garrison would surely deny her any knights to escort without detailed explanation, and she couldn't lie and take a couple of guards on an ostensible ride for pleasure and then lead them into danger too great for them to handle – but here was a trained fighter she could ask. And probably just as good as several guards, if not two or three of Camelot's knights.

But tonight really was too late for them to saddle up and pursue and hope to be successful. Acollyn looked _worn_ in a way a single day's ride – or even a week of hard riding – wouldn't cause. They could have an early night… and an early morning.

"Arthur's riding into danger," she told him succinctly, in a low voice. "I can't tell anyone here because I can't explain how I know that…"

Of its own accord, her hand wrapped around the silver cuff on her wrist that Morgause had given her to stop the nightmares; she thought she'd sleep without it tonight, in case any dreams might give her direction for tomorrow. His eyes followed the movement, but he said nothing.

"Gwen can arrange a meal and a guest's room for you tonight, and at first light-"

"I'll go," he said immediately. "Of course I'll go."

"We'll go," she corrected, and he frowned at her. She dared to twine her arm through his – not very nice or comfortable with his chainmail – and drew him toward the citadel. "I'll explain as we're walking."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur wondered, as they rode their horses at a steady pace through the forest twilight, how long it would take Merlin to discard the disguising – but restrictive - guards' helmet.

He and Leon rode abreast just behind Merlin and Gwaine, the unbelievably cheerful mercenary, who were themselves behind the pair of scouts in the lead. Arthur wondered if he should have made a bet with Leon about the helmet – any minute now…

"So you two knew each other as children, in Caerleon?" Leon asked.

The teeth of Gwaine's smile flashed in the dim light as he half-turned in his saddle and proceeded to regale them with the story. "So I'm fourteen years old and halfway through training, and dueling one of the damn king's damn warriors and I'm _almost_ beating him, but the damn king is jealous and short-sighted-"

He'd already declared that the chainmail and helmet – discarded before they'd left the lower town - and dragon-blazed tunic of his own disguise belonged to him, now. The helmet and tunic could be sold of course – back to Arthur if he was agreeable – for mead money.

Arthur was reserving judgment, for now.

Merlin shifted in his own saddle, casting a glance back at Arthur before palming the dome of his own helmet and lifting it off his head. A dozen trusted men had been dispatched to convey the creatures more secretly to the depths of the forest earlier in the day; the nose-guard of the helmet helped to hide identity, and allowed their troop to ride sedately through the lower town without anyone recognizing the sorcerer-hostage of Caerleon. Arthur's lips quirked at the thought that the younger man was _cooperating in comfort_.

Tucking his reins between saddle and knee, Merlin ran his fingers through his hair, lifting sweaty locks to the cool night breezes of early spring. He'd been embarrassingly happy to have his own gelding, captured with him, readied with the other mounts waiting for the troop in the courtyard. Arthur had noticed how attuned the animal was to the young prince's signals; it was a point in favor of the younger man's character.

"Surrounded by warriors on all sides, all eager for my blood and I'm sprinting for the gates and hoping I don't trip and kill a few with my sword because I haven't had time to sheathe it again because then they'll hunt me across the countryside instead of just chasing me out of sight of the walls-"

Arthur thought it was noteworthy that though Merlin didn't contradict Gwaine's tale, he grinned sideways at his riding companion and snickered as if Gwaine was deliberately exaggerating, but he wouldn't call him on it in front of men from Camelot.

"And he's maybe sixty pounds dripping wet – I mean, _tiny_ , and his boots are dangling at knee-height and probably about to slip right off his feet, and the damn king has got his massive fist all in the front of his shirt and jacket and scarf, and Merlin just _looks_ at him-"

Arthur supposed that meant Merlin hadn't been exactly the nervous abused stripling Gwaine made him out to be. He'd worried about obeying and pleasing his king, but he'd also made the decision to oppose him in future, when their principles clashed. Arthur wished him luck… and realized, if this venture succeeded – it was not certain, by any means, and not without risk for all of them – Merlin would be gone in a few days.

And he would miss him.

He tipped his head up, away from the sight of Merlin doubled over laughing at Gwaine's characterization of the image he remembered of the Caerleon prince's childhood self. Above the black-green patches of the forest's foliage, the clear sky still showed in shades of blue, with yellow in the west and purple in the east.

There was the first star. He remembered waiting eagerly for it to show through his chamber window, as a child, and how he'd speak to his mother as if she could hear him. His mother, who'd evidently sought and accepted magic performed on her person. And Arthur had contemplated the experience of having younger siblings, if she'd lived.

He'd missed something else Gwaine had said, but his attention was caught back to the riders in front of him; Merlin laughed so hard he almost fell off his horse.

"Now, that I cannot believe," he protested breathlessly.

"If you call me a liar," Gwaine returned, his grin audible in his voice, "I do not see how we can remain friends."

Merlin snorted again. "Then you must not have any friends."

It started as a joke; it rang out like a joke, but a half-second of silence on Gwaine's part had Merlin fumbling an apology.

"I'm sorry, I – don't know why I said that. Bit rude, wasn't it? I didn't mean that I think-"

"No, you'd be right," Gwaine said, showing an easy good nature that Arthur couldn't help suspecting was worn like other mercenaries might wear belligerence, as an armor of attitude against the mercilessness of their chosen world. "This profession doesn't inspire loyalty to comrades so much as to coin."

"That's too bad," Merlin said, sobering.

Arthur couldn't help but think of the boy in the story, who told his king, I think you should keep him. He wondered if Merlin would find a way of doing just that, with this friendless mercenary. Gwaine's inherited nobility meant he could try for knighthood in Camelot, if he had the patience and ability to act serious and respectful when it was required, and if he could swear allegiance to Uther… or rather, to Arthur, after this week.

Disconcerting thought. And completely unconnected, he heard Merlin's voice in his memory, words from the night of the battle – _Any man willing to risk his life and fight deserves the consideration. Respect, and protection_. A loyal blacksmith who could hold his own in the fight, or a noble-born mercenary from another kingdom…

What would Arthur's court and army look like, someday? _I think you should keep him…_

As darkness crept down from the sky and lingered ever closer about them through the trees, the conversation between riders died down. The scouts knew Arthur's planned route to the site he'd chosen for their camp – ground that was open and level as possible, and away from places where serkets had been sighted – but the moon was only a pale substitute for daylight, and care needed to be taken.

Even Merlin and Gwaine, strangers to Essetir and officially under the protection of the fighters from Camelot, kept their attention outward for possible threats. Merlin currently wore chainmail rather than the more distinctive ring-studded leather breastplate of his home kingdom, but he'd been given his blades back – and his sword, like Arthur's, had been quickly enchanted with the spell that could kill the Knights of Medhir, should they be so unlucky as to meet them. Arthur had turned his head to retain the semblance of innocence in that bit of law-breaking, but the blue glint in the core of his blade assured him of the magic's effect. And Merlin hadn't done more than gasp and pant a moment – then grin triumphantly.

By Arthur's estimation, it was close on midnight when the low orange-red glow of campfires first winked at them through the black barrier of tree trunks and underbrush. He was surprised that he didn't hear sounds of struggle – men shouting commands, beasts shrieking protest – and for a long uneasy moment, wondered if it was because worse had come to worst and the escape of beasts meant the death of men.

Then the figure of a sentry solidified, just by the path their horses followed, and Arthur caught the motion of a salute.

"All's well, sire."

Tension eased slightly. "Thank you – carry on."

Then they were riding into camp, and he saw the reason for the relative calm.

"Oh, that's an excellent idea!" Merlin exclaimed. Arthur wondered if the sorcerer-prince had been a little uneasy at the quiet approach, also. "Who thought of that?"

The griffon was bound between a trio of massive gnarled oaks, the chains linking the bands around front and rear legs effectively hobbling it. But the wings were docilely tucked – maybe because it appreciated the bit of freedom and exercise and fresh air, but more likely because a swath of tent-canvas had been fashioned into a hood not unlike those that calmed and contained hunting falcons. The griffon moved and lifted its head like it sensed their arrival, but made no noise or resistance.

"Actually, mine," Leon said, sounding pleased and embarrassed at the praise; he glanced self-consciously at Arthur as he added his own approval.

"Well done, Leon. I admit, I was a little worried how your men would get it out here without having to use the enchanted spears, after all."

"We started, wondering how to keep away from its beak as we traveled," Leon told them, dismounting. "How to keep it from biting us in half, one at a time, or trying so hard to that it wouldn't be possible to sustain any decent pace."

Gwaine and Merlin both followed his example, swinging stiffly down to the ground as if unaccustomed to their saddles. Well, it had been over a week for Merlin, and who knew how long for Gwaine; he didn't have a horse of his own. Maybe Arthur would let him have one from Camelot's stables in return for the guards' helmet and tunic back. If he proved useful, tomorrow.

"No, it's good," Merlin told Leon, free with his admiration in spite of apparent exhaustion. "It's clever."

Arthur noticed the keen look of scrutiny Gwaine leveled at the younger prince. It probably wouldn't take Gwaine as long as it had taken Arthur to realize, Merlin was just who he seemed to be. And more.

"And the goblin?" Merlin added, looking around. Ducking to see under his horse's head as it nudged him affectionately in the shoulder.

Leon spied the cannister first, on the edge of firelight, tucked between the rising roots of another tree, to which the lead of a placidly grazing mule was tied. "Just there."

"That mule is surprisingly tolerant," Merlin observed, "unless the goblin is being surprisingly still."

"That mule with the white splotch on its off hip," Leon told him, "is deaf. And used to transporting livestock – pullets and shoats. It won't pay any attention to bumping or mumbling."

Merlin shot him another complimentary grin, that warmed Arthur ridiculously – and discomfited him when Leon went on.

"That was Prince Arthur's idea."

"It does happen," he mumbled, avoiding their eyes. He affected to study the layout of the camp, though he'd been the one to plan it, and had already seen that the men chosen by him and Leon as well as their supplies were adequately organized. "That's our fire, there, unless anyone objects to the four of us remaining in company."

Gwaine made a noise – and Merlin made a gesture that silenced him.

Arthur appreciated that, but ignored both. "There aren't any servants in camp, though, so we'll have to settle the horses ourselves before seeking our bedrolls."

He kicked his boot free of the stirrup, swung his leg over the saddle and let himself drop to the ground, shifting his reins to lead his mount through the camp to the fire he'd indicated, tended but left unused.

Gwaine made another sort of sound as he secured his horse's line and turned to the buckles of saddle and tack, but Arthur ignored that, also. He was beginning to have the idea that it was the best way of handling the mercenary, irreverent in a worse way than the barbarian prince.

Then again, Merlin hadn't been exaggeratedly sarcastic to him for… several days, now.

From the corner of his eye he watched Merlin perform the same chore for his gelding with certain and practiced fingers, and wondered if he'd come to the point, as Merlin had said the first morning after he'd slept in the antechamber of Arthur's quarters, of earning his respect.

That would be a good bond to have, going into tomorrow. And magic.

"The entrance to the Valley is about an hour north of here," he said aloud as saddles were dropped and positioned, horses given a cursory once-over, and blankets unrolled. Merlin unbuckled his belt and propped his sword on his saddle, then bent double to wriggle out of the chainmail. "We'll eat cold and head out about an hour before first light."

"And tonight?" Gwaine said, crossing his boots and resting his head back into linked fingers as he leaned against his saddle. "Have any of us got to stand watch?"

"Not tonight," Arthur said, easing himself down and welcoming the warmth of the small circle of glowing coals and yellow flames licking white ash from previously gathered branches. He amused himself giving the mercenary a raised brow. "Tomorrow, though…"

"Depends if we're still alive?" Gwaine suggested with macabre cheer.

Leon made a noise of reproof; it didn't do to borrow trouble, but probably mercenaries made a joke about the expected longevity – or lack thereof – in their profession.

"It depends if you're useful," Arthur corrected, as Merlin curled into his blanket, toes and hair-thatch and nose showing, and fingers clutching it together in front of him.

"How useful are we talking, here?" Gwaine challenged.

"Gwaine," Merlin said loudly, though his voice was muffled by his blanket. Arthur thought his eyes were already closed. "Shut up so I can sleep."

Surprisingly enough, Gwaine did. He met Arthur's eyes with a grin – mimed buttoning his lips shut, then crossed his arms over his chest and hunched himself into a more comfortable position sideways.

Arthur himself caught and shared Leon's quiet amused glance before he closed his eyes. And it wasn't long til the dancing flickers of firelight and night-shadows on the backs of his eyelids faded into oblivion.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Annis strode into the royal bedchamber, pausing only to set the candelabra down on a side table, and stalked to the side of the bed. The king was a mound of snoring blankets, and she didn't hesitate to grab a corner and wrench them off, saying rudely, " _Hey_!"

Thurston snorted and got an elbow under him, eyeing her through locks of dark, graying hair to identify her as not-a-threat.

"I'm home," she told him shortly, stepping back but putting her hands on her hips and not moving to disrobe or unpack, though they were alone in the chamber. It wasn't really surprising, but judging by the smell, "Are you drunk?"

He rolled, shoving his hair back. "Not completely. And anyway –" he scowled – "I didn't expect you back so soon. Did something happen?"

She tapped her fingers against her hips, considering – then let fly. "Yes, actually. Our prince was injured fighting for Camelot in a recent battle–" Thurston lurched upright in the bed and she qualified, "Because they were attacked with black magic, and you know how Merlin feels about that."

Thurston muttered something that might have been, _Damn Alator_ , but Annis herself was satisfied with Merlin's actions.

"He's negotiating for his own release with Arthur Pendragon. Magic in return for his freedom."

Her husband blinked. "He's… _giving_ them magic to let him go? Why doesn't he just use it to escape? And what does Camelot want with him performing magic anyway?"

"Prince Arthur isn't like his father," Annis informed him. "Which you would know if we weren't ignoring them politically and skirmishing uselessly along the border in reality."

"That's the only way we're ever going to win anything from them," the king growled. "You know that."

"I know nothing of the sort. Our young heir is far closer to an amicable treaty with the young prince of Camelot in two weeks than you ever got with his father. And if you'd let him loose his magic on our land like he wants to, maybe you'd see better returns than trying to take from Uther by force. Maybe we could compete with them instead of trying to steal from them!"

He scratched his beard contemplatively, slouching over his legs beneath the covers. "It was a long trip from Camelot," he observed in a rasp. "And you took Hunith. I guess she was pretty upset to leave him, since you're still worked up?"

Annis took a breath and conceded, "Perhaps."

Thurston grunted again. "Well. If the boy frees himself by hook or by crook and returns having cost us nothing, but won the favor of the younger Pendragon… Perhaps I will have to allow him some cautious experimentation with his magic."

She huffed, but her irritation was already draining away at his concession. He held too much to the teaching and training of his own youth, was the problem; it was hard for him to see beyond the sword sometimes. But if Merlin had found his own two feet to stand on, and could challenge Thurston – maybe quietly and maybe privately – he could win the admittance and expression of some of the respect Annis knew her husband harbored for their heir.

"We chose well," she told him, even though he already knew that.

He made himself comfortable in the bed again, with the clear intention of watching her ready herself to join him. "You chose well," he corrected her.

She turned away to hide her smile, and find her buttons.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen stifled a yawn and rubbed her eyes with the hand unoccupied with her reins. She'd been up almost two hours already, completing her own preparations and Elyan's before she even went to the citadel for Morgana, but the noise of the lower town's early risers was smothered by the layer of fog that made her glad for her cloak, and the gait of their mounts wasn't as hurried as it would be later, in the forest with no curious eyes to observe.

"Morning," Elyan said laconically from the horse pacing beside hers, all four from Camelot's royal stable, as Sir Acollyn's mount was being let rest after his journey.

Sir Acollyn professed himself fully rested and ready for Morgana's quest – and his attentiveness this morning gave Gwen no basis to doubt his claim.

She looked aside at her brother's quiet grin, puzzled. Of course it was morning.

He gave her a look of exaggerated discovery. "Oh, there you are!" She made a face but no reply, and after a moment he added leadingly, "You've been distracted this morning."

She let their mounts take several sedate steps under them, watching to see that Sir Acollyn and Morgana were focused on their own conversation ahead of them, she pointing out various interests as they passed through the lower town, explaining and story-telling to a first-time visitor and rapt audience.

"Yes," she acknowledged Elyan's observation, and made a little gesture toward the surprise guest from Trevena. "A lot to think about."

She and her brother already discussed the reasons for the trip in abbreviated terms, last night when she'd come home to ask for his help and accompaniment. He'd known of Arthur and Merlin's mission, all it took was an extra, _sorceress in Essetir and we're going_ , for him to agree immediately. He intuited that her thoughts this morning tended toward their unfamiliar companion. As a distraction in itself from worrying about Ar- about the others, and magic – Morgana's, Merlin's, and Nimueh's – but Elyan didn't need to know that.

"You don't trust him?" her brother said softly, the words barely audible over the noise of hooves clopping on cobblestones.

"I trust him to be a noble knight of Camelot," she specified. "But what about the magic?" Maybe he'd be loyal to Arthur's wishes for discretion, and maybe he'd consider it his duty to inform Uther – or try to – and maybe he'd obey Morgana's will, but yet _hate_.

"What did she tell him, and what did he say?" Elyan asked.

Gwen deliberated. "He knows as much as you do," she said – and didn't miss the way Elyan lifted his brows, though she affected to ignore it. "Arthur captured Merlin, who's been honorable though he has magic. The king's illness affects his judgment so Arthur's negotiating Merlin's release in return for sending the magical creatures back to their own realms."

"And what did he say?"

"Not much." Gwen shrugged, studying Acollyn's profile as he turned toward Morgana. He'd been thoughtful, but not troubled, either last night or this morning. He reminded her a bit of Leon, that way.

Elyan studied him too, drawing his mount's reins through gloved fingers. They were rounding the last bend; the edge of the lower town would be in view, and then the forest and the harder riding leaving little time or breath or attention for idle conversation.

"And they're interested in each other," Elyan said, astonishingly. She stared at him, and the side of his smile quirked. "Is that what you think I don't know, that he doesn't know? It's not hard to see."

Gwen faced forward again. _You know as much as he does_ , left out the fact of Morgana's magic and her connections to whomever she'd been with, who was involved in the attack on the king, but not Nimueh. Of course Elyan couldn't have guessed _that_ , but she was surprised that he had the same thought that occurred to her, fairly quickly last night.

The joy at reuniting with an old friend hadn't waned for either of them; both Morgana and Acollyn had slipped tentatively personal inquiries into the obviously necessary exchange of information pertinent to their trip. That was how Gwen knew that the knight was neither married nor betrothed nor interested in becoming so, to any woman currently in Trevena. And how she knew Morgana was seething over being left behind – and not even told! – when Uther had made the trip, some years ago, to test and bestow knighthoods upon Sir Acollyn and a couple of others in Trevena.

Although, Morgana hadn't recalled the owners of the other names, quickly or clearly, and didn't seem too fussed for their sakes…

Gwen considered that a little hard to forgive, also. Morgana had been to her father's grave numerous times over the years, but never once back to her home. Perhaps Uther had anticipated a refusal to leave the estate again and a fit and a scene – but evidently he hadn't respected Morgana's right of inheritance enough to inform her of Trevena's knighthoods.

Acollyn's lingering disappointed hope had been apparent – and his understanding sympathy swift, to hear the reason for her absence on one of the most important days of his adulthood. Morgana had been mollified a bit though, to hear that he had wanted her specifically, and had looked for her, and…

"They would be perfect together," she whispered involuntarily.

Caught herself, and re-examined the sentiment. She knew little of Acollyn, and Morgana could be very critical of would-be suitors… but she'd never treated another knight with such genuine interest, and pleasure in company. And Trevena would be an irresistible draw…

"They could be good together," she amended, glancing at Elyan. It might depend entirely on what the knight thought of magic – but at the very least, he hadn't denounced it, verbally or by expression or attitude.

"Would you go to Trevena with her?" Elyan asked.

"No," Gwen said decisively. Then realized her reaction needed an explanation. "I'd much rather be Gaius' apprentice. And I'd miss Morgana, for sure, but…"

She couldn't leave Camelot. Things were always happening here; she wouldn't be content to hear about dangers and solutions weeks or even months after they'd passed. She wanted to be able to know immediately if Arthur – or any of her other friends – were hurt, for any reason. She wanted to be able to do something about it, not just tend someone else's hair and clothing and quarters and schedule in a distant border estate.

"How likely?" Elyan asked, inclining his eyebrows forward significantly.

Ahead of them, Acollyn gathered reins and tucked stirrups, urging his horse to a faster gait – trotting, then a slow canter. Morgana glanced back to be sure of Gwen and Elyan before she loosed her own white mare to keep up with the knight's darker gelding.

Her smile was wide and definite, dark brows up and eyes gleaming with anticipation of this adventure, black braid bouncing down her back. She was so _alive_.

Gwen called back to Elyan, as they pressed their horses to follow, " _Quite_."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin sat cross-legged on the forest floor, deliberately relaxing all physical sensation away in favor of focusing on the magic in this place.

The head of the _Bregum agryndende mearcdenu_. Maybe it deserved to be called a valley further on, but here it was little more than a descending break in the earth. Unremarkable from dozens of other enormous sinkholes and massive cracks in the ground of the ancient wood, two statues had been carved in the rock, warning him – and anyone else of magic – to keep a respectfully wary distance. Merlin thought that if he studied them, the statues might begin to reveal inhuman details, frightening or disgusting.

He kept his eyes closed to them, and to the pink-gold glow in the east heralding the most significant performance of magic he'd ever attempted. He ignored the faint sensation of warmth to focus on the waking and stirring of life and light, ignoring the clink and susurration of clothing and armor – Arthur, Gwaine, Leon, the others by the griffon, somewhere behind him.

The creature waited hooded, silent, alert, and Merlin believed the spears he'd enchanted would be unnecessary. He licked his lips and swallowed, and felt the _Endel_ - _Easnes_ shiver on his skin.

He felt what Arthur didn't say aloud. _Whenever you're ready,_ Mer _lin_. He took a deep breath.

 _"Tha rumas wuldorgesteald those thara acendlicnessa…"_ Ranges of the glorious realms of possibilities…

He lifted his right hand, tracing a line curving into itself, rising from the earth, shimmering faintly golden against the backs of his eyelids. He twisted his hand, all his fingers following the first, tightening the spiral, ending it and retreating.

" _Gebolstrod be tha fifmaegen tha heofoncandela…"_ Defended-Guarded by the magic-powers of the stars-moon-sun…

Another line rose from the earth, another spiral turning on itself, following the other without touching it. The air hummed anticipation; the griffon trilled softly in the back of its avian throat.

" _Gadertang aet unmaete epel…"_ To the vast-countless ancestral home… He drew on the magic of the earth, the air, the sun, flinging another line into the air between the sentinels of the portal and it curled into itself even as it expanded, away from the second following the first pursuing the third.

A key in a lock. He fitted his fingers delicately among the spirals and called up the image of the griffon's focus from the book – a jagged V interrupting a circle. The first griffon biting the earth – or the sun, maybe, pierced by an ancestral claw…

" _Agensendan thaere aweosunge faederedel…"_ Send-back this being-essence home-country…

He twisted his hand, and the golden swirls spun and blurred, appearing to reverse, to blend transparent.

"Unlock the chains," he heard Arthur say. "Release the hood."

"But sire, what about-"

"Don't be afraid," Merlin said. His throat ached and tears welled out from under his eyelids and lashes. "He won't attack. He'll want to go home."

If he opened his eyes to look into the other realm, past the doorway, past the eerie watching _bregum_ , he might want to go, too. Faintly he heard movement, and metal.

The griffon shrieked a wild triumph that stopped Merlin's heart in his throat. A whirlwind blasted past him, buffeting his hair and his shirtsleeves, nearly knocking him over sideways, scattering bits of dirt and leaves into the air.

He squinted past his elbow to watch the lion's hindquarters and tufted tail disappear with a brilliant white flash, then scooped the magic back, disrupting the trio of spirals like a handful of rainbow caught up from a reflecting pool. Then air vanished as his neck was _squeezed_ shut, and his chest convulsed, seeking but not finding.

Streams of dissipating magic spun about him, linking leaves and twigs and branches in fantastic and ephemeral patterns and it was beautiful and it was terrible. He found himself on his back in the forest bracken, the hands of his friends pressing on his chest as if to physically force him to accept air. The faces crowded in on and darkened the play of satisfied magic in his vision and he sipped air slowly and cautiously as broth right from the bubbling pot.

"Merlin! Breathe – are you all right?"

"Holy hells, Arthur, did you see…"

He ached to be part of the transcendence of such magic, to connect worlds and to unmake bridges. There were tears streaming down his face and he tried to curl around the loss hemorrhaging from the center of his being until it healed, rejecting the touch of oblivious mortals.

"I'm fine," he managed. "Don't touch me. I'm fine."

He hoped it was true. It was entirely possible that his whole body, and not just his eyes, was glowing.

Arthur and Gwaine both rocked back on their heels, relaxing – Gwaine to rise and gaze toward the _mearcdenu_ , but Arthur remained in his crouch, the fingertips of his off hand negligently pressing Merlin's ribs like he was only using him to keep his balance. Merlin was suddenly and contrarily glad for the contact.

"Have you ever seen anything like that," Gwaine said, a reverent exclamation.

Merlin breathed, and sensation gradually intruded – hard bits of stone and bark digging into muscle and bone through his clothing. Sharp pinprick cramps prompted and punished movement.

Arthur didn't answer Gwaine; he was staring toward or between the sentinel-statues also. The sun was visible behind his head, burnishing his hair in Merlin's perspective. Past dawn, then, and the day would only get older – but the magic was extravagant here; he didn't suppose he'd have trouble opening the other portals, as long as he was let rest a little, between-times.

"The goblin will be easier," he said, contracting muscles to sit up again – and accepting Arthur's offered hand gratefully. "Now that I know what I'm doing, let's get that over with, and then-"

"Then you can rest until the scouts report, serkets or Questing Beast," Arthur finished, and the phrase _you can rest_ sounded like a threat. Mandatory, and enforced.

Merlin couldn't help grinning, though all his joints seemed to creak internally. "Yes, my lord," he said, so sincerely it became sarcastic.

Arthur cocked a brow at him as he pushed to his feet, as if wondering if pursuing a challenge was worthwhile. Instead he twisted to command one of the trusted knights attending them, "Have Leon bring up the goblin's cask."

"Are you sure we can't get through?" Gwaine asked, sounding wistful as he looked down on Merlin, bending and crossing his legs into position again. "That looked… beautiful."

"Even if we _could_ ," Merlin stressed, "I wouldn't let you." Answering the questioning looks both Gwaine and Arthur gave him, he went on, "I couldn't in good conscience inflict Gwaine upon an unsuspecting world, even one populated by griffons or goblins."

Gwaine grimaced and made as if to kick him, but a short burst of incredulous laughter from the prince of Camelot made Merlin smile, and prepare to focus his magic again.

It might be a very long day, and a very tiring day – but he thought he could reasonably expect it to be a _good_ day.

 **A/N: Sorry a little late, again. Next chapter, sound and fury – monsters and witches!**


	24. Sound and Fury

**Chapter 24: Sound and Fury**

Arthur did not panic when he heard the woman's voice. He went coldly methodical, his hand drifting to his sword-hilt as he turned – slowly and calmly – to face her.

"Well – fancy meeting you here. Hello, Arthur."

At first glance she looked young – curving red lips, unlined face, vibrant bounce to the dark brown curls let spill over the hood and shoulders of a heather-gray cloak. But her eyes were piercing blue and _ancient_.

He heard scrambling behind him – Leon and Gwaine, up from their comradely sprawl leaning against tree trunks as they awaited further action. Maybe Merlin, though he'd been flat on his back a moment earlier, near enough to snoring to tease about it when he woke.

The woman's eyes never left Arthur; the self-assurance in her smile never wavered.

A woman traveling the forest of Essetir alone and fearless.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," he said evenly. "You are…"

"So pleased to meet you, after all this time."

She glided closer – carefully, keeping her hands in view, clasped innocently in front of her. Her eyes were anything but innocent, as she raked them over him, collar to heels and back again. She even circled him – as he turned to keep her in his line of vision, he saw that Merlin was upright, focused and wary, bending his knees and rocking forward to get his weight over his feet without looking away from the woman.

In a tone of keen interest, she added, "I was there when you were born."

He went colder still, his fingers tightening inside his gloves around the hilt of the sword. To be that old and look so young – _magic_ , and the only one he knew of in connection with his birth was-

"Nimueh," Merlin uttered, behind him.

Her smile at Arthur was arch and intimate – _shall we let him enter our private_ _conversation?_ – even as she angled her body toward Merlin. "The Pendragons have chained a sorcerer, I see," she said. "I watched you, just now – it's impressive how much magic you're handling around that collar on your neck." She added to Arthur, as if thanking him for a gift, "I have never seen a goblin, before."

The memory of the little being's nasal chortle, eyes wide and gold rings quivering in its enormous ears as it leap-frogged into the portal, would not soon leave Arthur.

But as he debated with himself swiftly, what to say in answer – play along and tell her nothing, or contradict her assumptions to introduce Merlin properly – the young sorcerer took the choice out of his hands.

"Is that what you felt Uther did to you?" he asked, head up and eyes steady and voice completely lacking in trepidation to express curiosity. "Chained your magic? Or did he ask broadly, _please help_ , and the means of Arthur's conception was all your idea?"

"You're a cheeky boy, aren't you?" she retorted, her sardonic composure cracking just slightly.

"I'm from Caerleon." Merlin grinned pure impudence at her, and Arthur didn't know whether he wanted to shake his hand – or all of the rest of him.

"Ah," she said, settling back into her confidence. "Prince Merlin, then."

"I wish I could say it's nice to meet you," he told her with contemptuous honesty.

She ignored him, lifting her gaze to the two others who were closest. Arthur's knights had been scattered further out, to give warning of approaching danger; abruptly he hoped Nimueh hadn't harmed any of his men. He didn't know what to expect of her.

"And Leon – and Gwaine, am I right?" she said, a lilt of amusement in her voice. "It _has_ been a long time since I was in Camelot, boys. All grown up and _armed_."

Leon was calm but alert, Arthur saw at a glance. Gwaine was less familiar with him, or Merlin, less likely to obey command of look or gesture; he might have been growling in the back of his throat, eyes flashing dangerously, but he didn't move or speak.

Arthur cocked his head as something occurred to him. Leon was several years older than him, so if she'd been in Camelot til his birth, she might just guess who he was if she'd kept track of the knights' children, but – _Gwaine_?

"You knew Gwaine?" he blurted incredulously. It brought her attention back to him and he knew there was a far more important question he wanted an answer to. "You knew my mother?"

A shadow of grief passed over her face, oh-so-briefly. "I was her friend. I was Uther's friend, I was _welcomed_ in Camelot. I did what I was asked to do, and used magic to give Uther's barren wife the son he craved. Her death was _not_ my choice – balance is the law of magic, to create a life, there had to be a death, but if I had foreseen Ygraine's, and the terrible retribution that followed, I would never have granted that wish."

It was a defense that put responsibility for the outcome back on Uther. But surely if his father had known, he never would have done it, either. He'd loved Arthur's mother too much even to _risk_ her; he'd maintained that magic had killed her and it was evil, but…

Was the truth truly as appalling as mutual _carelessness_?

He wanted to believe Nimueh. It fit with what Merlin had told him, of magic in general and his educated speculation about the situation of conception in particular. But it was foolish to place trust blindly – perhaps he'd done so with his father, as all children are born to do, but he wasn't a child any longer. Merlin had magic, but he had come to know Merlin, to anticipate what he'd do and what he wouldn't do, to understand his motivations – and if that was what trust was, then he trusted Merlin.

But not Nimueh.

"Why are you here?" he demanded, shifting his weight so that she noticed his hand was on the hilt of his sword.

"Perhaps I came to meet you, as I cannot when you are within your citadel," she said, almost coyly.

Arthur shook his head. "Try again."

Her smile included Merlin once more, her eyes narrowing in a slight squint. "Perhaps I was drawn to the enormous, fantastic magic you're using, and I wish merely to observe."

Merlin snorted, moving to a place just beyond Arthur's vision as he faced Nimueh, feeling close enough to place his fingertips on Arthur's shoulder-blade if he had a mind. "Try again."

Sharp blue eyes darted between them, and some veil of artifice dropped away from her features – he was reminded incongruously of Morgana, though _why_ – and she took a step back from them. Saying, with stark honesty, "Perhaps I wished to tempt fate."

Another step, two – and the ground shuddered under Arthur's boots, giving him scant seconds to crouch and draw steel before an enormous monster was rushing them out of the concealing foliage of the forest.

Arthur's first thought was confused – _the griffon came back?_

His second thought was to curse because surely she'd done something to his knights on lookout – they'd had no _warning_.

Gwaine was hissing expletives – Merlin edging to the side to give himself or Arthur or both more space to maneuver, his hands open and outward – not in surrender, but in readiness to fight with magic.

Then he recognized, it was the Questing Beast. The black-spotted white fur body of an enormous leopard with a serpent's hooded, scaled head. It hissed, darted out a tongue long enough to hang a man with, if it didn't have poisonous fangs and deadly claws.

And… he'd had the time to visually identify it, because… it wasn't attacking. It leaped on its back legs, back and forth, like a house-sized cat intent on something out of reach, darting its head back and forth on a serpentine neck. It kept a distance, though, as if there was some invisible barrier – Arthur glanced sideways again, but Merlin was breathing and his eyes were clear narrowed blue. The magic wasn't their protection, then. It darted out its tongue, flickering, ceaselessly, tasting the air around them.

Nimueh swayed forward, almost between him and the Beast, looking up at it which theoretically would leave her vulnerable to Arthur's sword if he was the sort to take an advantage like that – which he wasn't, but did she know that, or did she have some sort of invisible magical protection? Yes, she was a sorceress – but she had done no magic nor offered any threat but that of her presence. He couldn't strike first at a woman, or at anyone's back.

"That's… absolutely astounding," she declared.

"Yeah, it is," Merlin breathed feelingly – then startled. "Sorry – what is?"

"The Questing Beast," she said to them over her shoulder. "Its appearance foreshadows a time of great upheaval. I summoned it here to send against your father – and you, I suppose, I wasn't fussed over its choice of victim. But it wouldn't kill you or enter Camelot and I _couldn't figure why_."

"You summoned it here to kill my father," Arthur said. Not exactly surprised, since magic-users bent on revenge – feeling betrayed themselves, as he now understood it – had been attacking the author of the Ban and resulting Purge in all manner of ways ever since he could remember. But he was _angry_.

Merlin was also angry, and said almost the same thing, almost at the same time – but he was angry for a different reason. "You summoned it here to kill people? And you didn't care who? And you didn't care what might happen to it when people defended themselves? Obviously you didn't send it back when your plan failed!"

Nimueh paused, giving him a look of troubled depth. "I make no apology-"

"Hells!" Merlin snarled violently, stalking a little way to face the Beast more than Nimueh.

Arthur kept him in the corner of his eye, in case he got any stupid ideas, like trying to pet the thing. "Why did you bring it here today?" he demanded of her. "To have another go at me?"

"It's not your destiny to die at my hand," she said. "No, it was to see if I was right about you. I couldn't imagine why it would let the son of Uther Pendragon live, it _bothered_ me-" He could see the echoes of that, an unsolvable riddle of enormous importance to her. "That's why I stayed. To watch you, and discover…"

"Discover what?" he said narrowly.

"This," she said simply, gesturing between him and Merlin. "If you were like your father. If your destiny was great enough to remain untouchable til it was accomplished – and if I could guess what it was."

"And?" Arthur prompted, beginning to feel impatient with the deliberate abstraction of her words.

"And, I guess you found your Emrys." She gave him a secret, satisfied smile.

"Do you know who that is," Merlin asked flatly, shooting her a glance. Hands on his hips as he contemplated the creature – clearly held in place by some bond that Nimueh presumably controlled. "My first night in Camelot's cells, I heard whispers. Like those with magic who had spent time there-"

The side of his gaze flickered to Arthur, and he heard what Merlin didn't say – _awaiting execution…_

"Expected him to save them," he finished. "Or something."

"Or something," Nimueh said slyly, clearly enjoying some great, important, or amusing knowledge they weren't privy to. "I used to wonder myself, where he was and why he didn't come sooner."

Arthur was distracted from the implication of that word _sooner_ , when Merlin turned suddenly on her, eyes flashing dangerous blue fire.

"I'm going to send it back," he announced, his posture altering subtly, but in a way Arthur was beginning to recognize – it was Merlin giving an invisible blade a twirl at his side and settling in for a fight. "You did wrong to summon it. The blood it's spilled is on your hands, and your responsibility to right that wrong is too long neglected. Do you oppose me in this?"

"I don't, Your Highness," Nimueh said, with false deference that brought a sour look to Merlin's face. "I only ask to be allowed to observe your power in action."

Merlin's eyes found Arthur's with a question.

"One wrong _twitch_ , and you die," Arthur warned her.

She shrugged unconcern over the threat, pleased to be getting her own way – but of course she didn't know that Arthur's blade had been enchanted to kill magic. Or Merlin's, which Gwaine was keeping for him.

"You sure you can, mate?" Gwaine asked Merlin in a low voice, eyes on Nimueh like he wasn't pleased to have to ask the question where she could hear. He tapped his own collarbone to clarify. "That thing…"

"The _Endel-Easnes_ , isn't it?" Nimueh said, darkly cheerful. "Of course you can perform magic while wearing it, but it's not completely inert, either. Wouldn't you rather do magic with it off? I can try to-"

"No," Arthur said at the same time as Merlin – his glance at the younger prince reflective, realizing it was his decision to make even as the meaning of Merlin's refusal penetrated.

Merlin clearly second-guessed his first instinct for some reason that Arthur's denial affected, before he added to the sorceress, "I'll be fine. I don't trust you fiddling about with this thing."

Nimueh shrugged, curls and soft purple-gray cloak. "As you please."

Merlin headed for his place facing the two statues at the head of the valley where he'd formed or called or visualized the portal twice before, and the rest of them maneuvered warily into place around him. Nimueh two paces behind and to his left – Arthur near enough to run her through but not near enough for her to attack and take him by surprise. Gwaine at the edge of the clearing and far enough forward that he could take a shot at Nimueh with the bolt he was loading in a crossbow – Arthur hoped he'd had the sense to use one of their handful of enchanted arrows – without endangering Merlin in the middle. Leon was gone – probably to check on the knights who were meant to be maintaining their perimeter, and tend to whatever she'd done to get past them. Maybe to rally them to Arthur's aid, should he require that.

The sorcerer-prince spoke the first line of enchantment, and a curved bolt of light shot up from the ground between the two statues like an enormous fiddle-leaf fern uncurling. Arthur had seen the phenomena before, and kept his eye on Nimueh.

Surely she'd done this to summon the beast, but she was leaning forward, eyes rapt and red lips dropped open in awe, and Arthur was startled to have his understanding of Merlin adjusted a bit more.

It wasn't just, stubborn enough to punch a bit of magic past an annoying and maybe slightly damaged block. It was _powerful enough to_.

But Merlin sat there on the dirty ground in his faded Caerleon indigo shirtsleeves and his messy-curly hair, pointy elbows and knobby knees, speaking spectacular magic into existence to send a lost and lonely and maybe confused creature home.

It keened like the griffon had, pleading and anticipation, yearning forward and intent upon the swirling almost-portal. Nimueh ignored it. Arthur ignored the hairs on his arms and neck trying to stand up and found himself thinking instead about the beast's kin and connections – did they mate for life? Did they recognize their young, years later? Did they communicate with one another?

The air shimmered like a reflection off the surface of the water, and the Beast leaped into the portal-

Arthur squinted and turned, expecting the resulting flash of light-

He did not expect Nimueh to spin towards him, hand upraised and eyes fiery gold, red lips shrieking magic. He did not expect Gwaine to spin towards him and fire the loaded crossbow.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana drew rein immediately as Acollyn, riding half a length ahead to her left, signaled to the side.

They'd eaten briefly and rested even more briefly, and now it was past midday and even though they'd seen signs of the passage of Arthur's men – horses and riders and the enormous pawprints of the griffon that had taken Acollyn somewhat aback – they hadn't caught up or met anyone.

It was putting her on edge. The quiet of the forest was a wary, watchful quiet, and she knew the others felt it too. Gwen and Elyan behind hadn't said a word since they'd remounted after eating, and Acollyn's head was on a constant swivel, the way she might've mocked had it been Arthur, or any other knight she didn't know or care to know in Camelot. In Acollyn it seemed professional, and she respected that in him.

It felt like the middle of a lightning storm, paused in noon sunlight, the air crackling with tension and unspent power.

She reacted to Acollyn's signal instinctively, leaning forward to grasp his fingers and _casting_ , in an urgent whisper under her breath. " _Ic the aweardian_ …"

He threw a startled glance back at her, not jerking away but leaving his outstretched hand in her grip – his eyes wide and his mouth beginning to quirk in a surprised, involuntary smile, because… he might have felt that. What she did.

"What is it?" Elyan asked in a low tone.

Acollyn dropped his hand away from hers, gripping the back of his saddle to turn himself further and meet the blacksmith's query – though his eyes continued to search the forest behind them. "I'm not sure. I thought I heard-"

Morgana heard it too. A cross between a clash of metal and a harsh cry of pain – one or the other or both together, maybe. Acollyn's attention snapped forward again as he focused on the direction and spurred his mount into a safe canter – over brush and fallen logs, around trees and patches of briars. They followed as fast as they might.

Into a clearing that made Morgana think confusedly, _Druids?_ til she realized that several bodies littering the ground, half-seen at the edges of the area, wore chainmail. A camp of knights – Arthur's camp.

Dread hung so thick and palpable that she jerked her reins to bring the white mare to a dancing stop, while Acollyn galloped his chestnut mount three more paces, simultaneously drawing his sword and kicking free of his stirrups to slide to the ground. His mount skidded and twisted to the side, instinctively avoiding whatever Acollyn had seen fit to attack, and when it hopped clear she saw-

A black knight, hood and cloak and jagged sword, pursuing a crimson-clad knight with tousled red-gold curls who stumbled in a desperate retreat, having not noticed them yet. And the Knight of Medhir needed take no notice of them, for being undead, it couldn't be killed, and-

Acollyn didn't know that, charging between a fallen comrade and the menacing enemy with courage and energy enough to drive off the black knight momentarily.

Behind Morgana, Gwen cried out, "Leon!" and the beleaguered knight swung about, astonished in his exhausted despair.

Morgana sensed Elyan moving forward to join Acollyn in the defense against the Knight of Medhir, and grabbed at him more frantically than she'd laid the bit of magical shielding over Acollyn.

"Wait, wait!" she hissed.

He paused, dismounted and sword raised and ready, clearly disinclined to let the naked blade nearer her bare fingers. No time, no time to explain and persuade – she flung the spell at his blade, the one used by Merlin to kill this one's fellows in the battle and learned by her for curiosity's sake and _just in case_ -

Where was Morgause, then? And what would she do to find Arthur – or Merlin – or Nimueh?

 _"Bregdan anweald gefeluec!"_

The sword in Elyan's hand sparked blue, and his jaw dropped, astonished. His dark eyes met hers briefly – he _knew_ – before he sprinted forward with new determination.

He was only a blacksmith, he had no right to challenge her even over the use of magic – but the thought hadn't even crossed his mind; his immediate reaction was to use her gift as one from an ally, and charge the true enemy.

Leon had dragged himself to his feet – had he seen what she did as well, or not? – and Acollyn thrust his sword twice into the mass of the black knight's body without effect, as it dismissed Acollyn to turn and defend itself against Elyan.

Gwen's mount stepped up beside Morgana's, and she spared a glance to meet her maid's scared-determined look. At least – she searched as far as eye could penetrate the forest – there weren't others of the Knights. No sign of Morgause – but no sign of others of Arthur's men, living or injured. Were Arthur or Merlin among the fallen? She hoped not; their destination was still distant from here, and there was also no sign of the creatures they had come to dispose of.

A shout caught her full attention back to the engagement. Elyan seemed a fighter skilled enough to defend himself against the Knight, but it ignored Acollyn's attacks to press the blacksmith – and a second after calling out, Elyan tumbled forward, ducking a sword-swipe from the knight in black and releasing the blade Morgana had enchanted. Acollyn spun, bending to snatch Elyan's deliberately-placed sword in his off hand and rising like an avenging angel-

As children, she'd never seen that look on his face, though she knew it from the duels and tournaments and skirmishes of her limited experience observing the fighters of Camelot. Deadly intention, and it sent a sobering, exhilarating thrill up her spine as he blocked, and parried, then dipped and thrust Elyan's sword up into the black knight's chest under its rib cage.

There was no sound save the thundering of her heart in her ears. The Knight of Medhir seemed to rise on its toes, leaning backward for a moment, then collapsed to a storm-cloud of fabric, cascading off Acollyn's borrowed blade.

Elyan stepped to his side, looking down at the empty cloak and discarded mask, as Acollyn nudged it warily with the toe of his boot.

"Well struck, my lord," Elyan said clearly.

Beside Morgana, Gwen let out the breath she'd probably been holding in an explosive sigh of relief. Morgana was trying to convince every muscle in her body that had clenched like it was her battle to fight and her body at risk, to relax. Acollyn turned to Elyan as Leon limped to join them; Morgana assumed that if Arthur or Merlin was present, Leon's attention would turn immediately to one and then the other – so they were safe. Or at least, somewhere else.

"That wasn't my skill," Acollyn said, lifting the sword and looking down at it like it was a foreign object that he'd never seen before and couldn't deduce its function.

Leon said to Elyan, "Did Merlin give you that?"

Gwen made a sound like, _oh dear_ , and slipped down from her saddle, abandoning the reins of the second milk-white mare, trained as all royal mounts and behaving itself calmly now the commotion in its vicinity was ended. Morgana wasn't so sure, but she swung her leg over the saddle also, toying with the reins so her mare stayed with her, stepping more slowly across the clearing that Acollyn's chestnut hadn't even left.

"Merlin?" Acollyn was saying. "The sorcerer-prince of Caerleon?"

"He helped Arthur kill several of these fellows last week," Elyan said, kicking sideways at the pool of black cloak. "Someone raised the Knights of Medhir from Idirsholas, but Merlin enchanted Arthur's sword and then he was able to kill them."

"And Merlin enchanted that one for you?" Leon asked again, sounding puzzled. "Acollyn – good to see you, when did you arrive?"

"Last night," Acollyn said, evidently assuming Leon meant, in Camelot rather than in their camp here.

Leon nodded like of course the knight of Trevena would then ride out to the forest of Essetir with the three of them the next day. But his gaze was still focused on Elyan's sword in Acollyn's hand, and Elyan, with his inscrutable dark eyes on Morgana, laid his hand on Leon's forearm.

"You're injured," he said. "Come over here, Gwen can take a look."

"Clean you up a little, and I have bandages if they're necessary," Gwen added, gripping Leon's other elbow gently to encourage him.

"We don't have much time," he said. "Arthur and Merlin need…"

"Us," Elyan finished for him. "But we won't do them any good injured – come, just over here…"

Elyan had seen her. Leon hadn't. Nerves fluttered agitation around Morgana's heart, but as she watched Elyan and Gwen both focus on Leon as if of course the wellbeing of their friend was more important than her using magic – she faced Acollyn. The fear of Elyan, or Leon – _knowing_ , what they'd think what they'd say what they'd do – was suddenly of vastly less importance than Acollyn's reaction. He was symbolic of Trevena, after all.

He looked up from the enchanted sword to her, and his dark-honey brown eyes were dazed. "I suppose I just used magic, didn't I?"

"You wielded it," she corrected cautiously. Certainly for Uther that would have been enough to have him executed.

One corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Are you going to be very shocked if I say – that was _amazing_? I could _feel_ it – this sword… _tingles_ , like mine doesn't."

He flipped it over in his hand, sighting down its length like he could see that blue spark, and found it fascinating, before darting his gaze back to her, uncertain of her response. Because he expected, like Merlin had expected, King Uther's ward to hate magic as fanatically as he did, and didn't wish to offend her, that… he didn't.

"Are you going to be very shocked," she said unsteadily – could this be happening? this wasn't happening! – "If I say, it wasn't Merlin who enchanted the sword…"

Entire worlds of potential lingered in his gaze – uncertainty moving toward realization toward-

"It was me," she finished, feeling a bit numb. Like she'd just set her heart at his feet and now her chest was hollow and still and she had to stand and step away and wait to see what he'd do with it.

Everything was out of her control.

He smiled, warm and crooked, his eyes flooding with sweetness and warmth. "Oh," he breathed. "Of course. Brilliant. Well done – are you all right?"

"You don't think it's evil?" she said. She was floating; she couldn't feel the ground beneath her feet; she was dreaming.

"No," he said, tempering his reaction a little. "It's dangerous, certainly – does it have anything to do with why you were gone last year, and where you were?"

"A bit," she admitted. "You're – not even surprised?"

Acollyn glanced over at Leon – seated on one of the camp stools, Gwen bending over him and Elyan knelt at his feet – and shifted his back to them. "Your mother had magic," he said in a low voice. "A bit. It… ran in your family. My father told me in strictest confidence, in case you…"

His father who was steward of Trevena. She tried to breathe, but a glad sob pushed out of her chest. He said, _it ran in your family_.

"My mother," she repeated. Then, focusing on him more narrowly – he was a few years older than her, after all - she added, "My sister?"

He huffed a sigh of released tension. "You know about her too, then." Morgana nodded, and he guessed, "She survived the fall of the Priestess' Isle and… came to find you in Camelot?"

Well, essentially it was correct, if it left a lot out. She nodded and said in explanation the same thing at the same time as he said in realization, "Last year."

And cringed to anticipate him repeating Gwen's question, and Merlin's – _why did you come back._

Instead Acollyn, his eyes darkening seriously, said, "What are you going to do?"

 _I don't know_. She couldn't say, _Since my sister used black magic to break Uther mentally – and I helped because I thought he deserved to be wracked with guilt for his crimes – and Arthur's going to be regent, maybe I can just come_ home.

"Well – today," she stuttered. "Arthur – and Merlin. The sorceress, and… I think Morgause might be in these woods, too."

Because the Knights of Medhir wouldn't have come without her – and would Acollyn like Elyan and Merlin and the rest consider them dark magic and evil? did he make a moral differentiation rather than a practical one like Morgause did? – and this one's treatment of Arthur's camp spoke to her attitude toward the princes' venture.

His eyes narrowed and his intensity focused – not to the same extent as when he fought the black knight, but a shiver still trembled the length of her spine. It reminded her of when Merlin swore, and then kissed her. But Acollyn wasn't a pretty, full-lipped, sarcastic young prince, away from home for the first time, and still in love with a bakery maid. Acollyn was a knight, broad-shouldered and blooded in battle, absolutely and triumphantly self-sufficient in traveling alone through enemy territory for a year. For her.

He was a _man_. Morgause was so wrong about men.

And she looked at his mouth, firm lips and honey-brown beard stubble like a wheat-field after harvest and she wondered how it would feel to have him lean her into a stone wall – or the nearest tree trunk – and kiss her the way Merlin had. Passionately and angrily or sweetly and carefully or anything in between. Everything.

Terribly inappropriate thought today. But maybe tomorrow…

And the thought flew far to the back of her mind when he said, "Does she bear Arthur a grudge?"

"I… don't know," she said, feeling awkward to be uncertain. She'd spent a year with her sister but still didn't know these things? "She was mainly displeased with Uther-"

He nodded, accepting the fact without judging Morgause's justification and Morgana went on.

"I told her Arthur was different and she was willing to wait for Arthur to change…" She trailed off, still so annoyingly uncertain. Was Morgause willing to wait solely for the sake of Morgana's sensibilities, or because Morgana had convinced her sister of the truth of Arthur's character? And another deeply disturbing question, how long would she wait? Arthur might have died in the battle Morgause planned if not for Merlin, even before Morgana's prearranged part of it ended the fight in surrender. Anyone at all might have died had the goblin proved murderous rather than greedy.

He nodded, and still there was nothing of censure in his face or bearing, for her or for Morgause. "Then we need to protect Arthur," he said, and it was not a suggestion – nor a question that wondered if she agreed with him. "However we can."

Acollyn met her eyes and she knew he meant, _with your magic, too_. She shivered at the realization of his assumption – shared and unquestioned loyalty to their prince, up to and including breaking the law. That she'd trust him at least with the knowledge of her use of magic, and her protection should she be discovered in using it thus by those who would hurt her.

He'd recognized her gesture, placing her heart at his feet. He'd knelt and scooped it up, carefully and gently, and vowed to cherish and protect. Not out of duty – maybe out of friendship – dared she hope for more?

"Sir Leon, are you ready?" she said, swaying to see him around Acollyn, who shifted to look over his shoulder at the other knight.

Leon stood, Gwen still adjusting the chainmail at his collar, the white of a bandage showing; determination showing on his face. Elyan straightened to standing, turning to face them also, ready to obey, ready to fight.

With a heady mix of giddiness and dread churning in her stomach, she concluded, "Let's go."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine hoped he was going to live to see tomorrow. It wasn't a completely new feeling, but if he'd ever felt it so true before, he'd be damned.

 _"On your left – Gwaine, on your left!"_

Then again, dying damned couldn't be much different than this. Fire flickered noon-bright around the clearing, and smoke gathered like mist, leaving his skin gritty-sweaty and his eyes stinging-hot.

No sooner had Merlin opened the portal for the Questing Beast – stranger still and more menacing than the griffon, if anyone was asking Gwaine – than a _second_ sorceress had arrived, blocking Nimueh's instinctive attack. Blocking the arrows Gwaine had tried to shoot.

 _Dive to the right, spin around the trunk of a tree and just barely duck a branch in time-_

Without warning, just like the first, just as beautiful and fierce, like day to Nimueh's night. Arthur had called her Morgause – once, in a gasp, as he scrambled and rolled to avoid her blade, bared to strike at him from behind-

 _Dammit,_ use _the blade, Merlin-_

But Morgause's escort wasn't a single great magical creature, held back so a conversation could take place, it was a pair of knights in black – hoods, cloaks, and _masks_ of all things, and there was something horribly, gruesomely _off_ about them. What they lacked in skill, they made up for in immortality.

Too bad he hadn't realized that while they still had enchanted weapons to hand. There hadn't been more than a single moment to realize Arthur's guard – stationed around the site of the portal - hadn't given them a warning because they probably weren't able any longer to give a warning, to tense and brace for whatever the trio intended, when-

 _"Arthur, duck!"_ He tackled the blond prince, rolling them both over and over to avoid the stabbing stinger-tail of the monsters that had attacked en masse only moments after the second sorceress made her entrance in the clearing.

The enchanted weapons hadn't done a damn bit of good against giant scorpions. And the damn things ignored the black knights – one was pinned up against a tree trunk with a spear Arthur had cast. Still alive, somehow, wriggling like a worm on a hook, and Gwaine didn't blame the Pendragon prince one bit for hating magic like _that_.

 _Okay, where's_ my _prince?_

He tried to keep things simple, focus on protecting Merlin first and himself second. Merlin acted like he was about half-drunk after the third portal for the Questing Beast had swirled closed, stumbling and slow to react.

 _There_. Gwaine darted forward, dodging one set of clacking pincers that looked strong enough to slice a man's limb to the bone – if not the bone itself – and leaping clear over another. Merlin wasn't even trying magic anymore, fighting solely with his sword – not bad, but there was the stumbling and delayed reflexes…

"Watch your _flank_!" he yelled, swinging his own blade in a wide arc upward – and only knocking the scorpion off-balance. If Merlin answered, he didn't hear it.

Nimueh had attacked the serkets with magical fire, but now she and the blonde witch Morgause were secured inside a circle of the stuff – evidently it needed no actual fuel to keep burning, though it would spread if it caught dead wood and leaves and brush – they were focused on their own quarrel, leaving Gwaine protecting Merlin, who evidently was protecting Arthur.

Pendragon had gotten one of the crossbows, and a handful of the enchanted bolts from where they'd glanced off the serkets' shells. And a fall of black clothing puddled on the ground, three of the bolts anchoring the empty cloak and faceless mask to the earth – because evidently whatever they were using as bodies disappeared when they were struck by magical weapons.

Merlin let out an inarticulate cry, knocking Gwaine off-balance as he stumbled back, and Gwaine whirled, loosing his temper to attack and drive off the one that was overwhelming the prince of Caerleon, momentarily.

"We need to get our backs to that fire!" Arthur shouted grimly. "…Some cover!..."

Problem was, the serkets weren't all that fussed by their unenchanted weapons, either. They couldn't often get close enough to land many blows in any case, and that black carapace was thick plate armor.

"…Can't," Merlin gasped, "turn your back to – either of those two!"

Beneath the heavy chainmail, Gwaine was sweating like a pig – yes, he knew pigs didn't sweat, but the fires made everything hotter than hell, and he probably stank like a pig, if he could smell anything other than smoke and death. The armor wasn't much good anyway – those scorpion tails would break bones if they landed, and the poisoned tip might actually be sharp enough to penetrate the armor links in a deadly enough way, to say nothing of arms and legs.

They were tiring. And no reinforcements were coming, and they were outnumbered, and they'd been driven apart often enough to know it would happen again and maybe _this_ time-

" _Gwaine_!" He heard Arthur call his name, and was shoved hard enough to lose his feet.

Looking up even as he tucked to roll and regain balance, he glimpsed yet another stinger-tipped tail darting over him. Arthur yelped and dove another direction, coming up behind a tree and plastering himself to it, momentarily shielded as two stingers slammed into the bark hard enough to shiver the whole tree – before they turned to attack each other.

Gwaine rolled, bruised and aching and _damn_ tired, and felt Merlin's off-hand on his collar, dragging to counter-balance him up to his feet, and the prince's grip was trembling.

"The hell with this," Merlin said, his voice like burnt gravel.

He didn't let go of Gwaine either, but yanked him along, stalking directly toward the sorceresses, arguing and gesticulating inside their protective circle of fire. He didn't slow, and Gwaine snarled as Merlin pulled him right through the fire.

Searing pain engulfed his body, and his vision went white-yellow blind, and-

Then he felt nothing.

 **A/N: I'm a little sorry for the cliffie. But that will probably be a fact of life for these next few chapters… I'm going to try to complete this story before November and NaNoWriMo.**

 **Some quotes taken from eps. 1.4 "The Poisoned Chalice" and 1.9 "Excalibur". (Do I have to translate Morgana's spells? – '** _ **Ic the aweardian'**_ **is the shielding spell – 'I thee ward.' And '** _ **Bregdam anweald gefeluec'**_ **is what Merlin uses on Lancelot's spear to kill the griffon.)**

 **To the unregistered "Guest" who reviewed last chapter. Sorry about Lancelot… I didn't want to remake the episodes of the first two seasons with everything working out perfectly – without Merlin. So Lancelot is a casualty and no one even realizes it, and lots more knights and soldiers, actually. For the question of Arthur surviving all these attacks w/o Merlin, I have a theory about destiny, that death can't/won't thwart it. If you're meant to do something, it'll work out for you to do it. Therefore, even without Merlin to specifically protect Arthur, it works out that he's protected. Even without Kilgarrah to tell Merlin his destined job, Merlin's going to forge a friendship and declare a loyalty and protect Arthur and return magic, etc…**


	25. Smoke and Flood

**Chapter 25: Smoke and Flood**

Merlin was beyond furious. And aware that his strength was drained, magic and body. He was shaking and empty, but his temper blazed hotter and higher than the witches' fire. Protecting them – and only them – from the serkets attracted to the day's doings.

And they didn't even have the decency to help him with the poisonous creatures, before having a fit at each other.

One hand full of Gwaine's collar and chainmail, and Arthur in the corner of his eye – protected by the tree and he could climb it if he was quick and it was necessary – Merlin stalked through the _cume hay fyrbryne_ to confront the two women.

Neither of whom, in his opinion, had any right to be here – not within Camelot's borders, since they'd declared themselves enemies and were therefore trespassing – and not in the _mearcdenu_ since both of them used dark and selfish magic. The Beast was home and the last of the Knights was pinned to a tree and that was him and Arthur, he reckoned, cleaning up _their_ mess.

"Hey, witches!" he growled rudely – and was darkly glad to startle them out of their argument, heated as the fires around them. Nimueh had thrown a few handfuls of the stuff before setting up the unbreachable circle, and a couple of the serkets had caught the flames and spread them still further in throes of agony and expiration.

He didn't slow. Releasing Gwaine inside the fire-protected circle, he grabbed each woman by a rough handful of sleeve – Nimueh's feminine lavender-hued cloak, and the other's black-and-chainmail – and marched them right through the other side of the flame barrier. Ignoring the heat and crackle himself; it was his most familiar element, after all.

They stumbled along with his grip, too startled to react.

"We're tired of fighting these monsters while you two bicker like children," he rasped. "I'm opening the portal. _Make yourselves useful_."

He released them with a shove, retreating back inside their circle to see that both turned away from the other, forced to use spell-work and attention to defend themselves from the serkets' eagerness to attack anything that moved. He turned back to Gwaine, who was patting at smoking sleeves and trousers-legs.

"It was hot – and then it wasn't," the mercenary blurted, incredulously.

"Keep your eye on Arthur," Merlin ordered him. His throat was raw, dry and hot and smoke scraped through with every breath, every particle of ash.

Gwaine gave him a determined nod, and Merlin allowed himself to collapse to sitting inside the circle of fire, shielded from the serkets. He spared a glance for Arthur, who'd swung himself up into the branches of the tree below which the massive scorpion-like creatures battled each other – drawn by the magic and maddened by the fire.

Merlin hunched over his knees, wrapping his fingers around the necklace as if that would help him convince himself, it was only an enchantment, it wasn't real. His knuckles had split open at some point, and blood slipped over the pulse point in his neck.

 _"Tha rumas wuldorgesteald those thara acendlicnessa…_ _Gebolstrod be tha fifmaegen tha heofoncandela…"_ His voice was little more than a croak of noise. _"Gadertang aet unmaete epel… Agensendan thaere aweosunge faederedel…"_

The golden swirls faded to white crackles around the edges of his vision, like frozen lightning. He couldn't lift his arm to fit his fingers into the key and turn it, but the symbols swirled anyway, and his whole being formed the focus for the serkets' realm – a strange sideways teardrop with a little sharp star at the end, maybe to represent the tail and the poison.

Power rushed through him from somewhere else. He felt transparent – a mist, a shroud – as if no one could hear him or see him and his friends might look right past him in searching for where he'd gone.

The portal flashed, and flashed again, each time a serket crossed the threshold. How many? Evidently they'd been reproducing since the first ones had entered this world – and he lost count. _Flash, flash, flash-flash-flash_ …

Would it stay open if he lost consciousness? He wasn't breathing; he hadn't been breathing for a while. The lightning-bright passage of each creature appeared smaller and dimmer every time, interrupting the encroaching blackness around his vision. Fire and air roared in his ears and-

And nothing moved, and Gwaine's hands cradled him, tucking the back of his head into the crook of an elbow. The flaming circle extinguished itself with a twist. Silence rained down around him like drops on a wet painting, smearing him down to absorb into the earth streak by streak.

He heard his friend speaking, comfort and nonsense, and sank gratefully through the ground and into oblivion.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur's heart caught in his throat to see yet another trio of golden spirals shimmer into the eddying haze of a portal.

His view from his perch in the tree – bark rough under his fingers, air scalding his throat and lungs with each breath he sucked in - was partially blocked. Merlin had dragged Gwaine into the fire where the sorceresses argued, disappearing into foliage and smoke from Arthur's perspective.

But then the portal appeared – and the serkets alerted to it.

Approached, and began vanishing through it. Some scuttled eagerly for the portal, flashing into another existence like moths reaching a great flame, some seemed to struggle against unseen forces driving them back to it – and some seemed to cross entirely oblivious, clicking and clacking aggressively at each other. The three beneath Arthur's tree skittered away, and disappeared into blind spots flickering in Arthur's vision.

He blinked down at the silver line of his sword, dropped and abandoned in the bracken as useless against the creatures anyway, and only slowing him down in his climb to safety. Ducking and squinting, he decided that the immediate area was clear, and – _flash, flash-flash_ – fewer serkets left every moment.

But Nimueh's motives were obscure at best, and considering the expression on Morgause's face when he twisted in surprise to find her striking at his back with no warning, silent and lethal, he trusted her not at all with Gwaine or Merlin in a vulnerable position – and after the _fourth_ portal, he knew Merlin would be vulnerable.

He slid down, jumped the last length to the ground, stumbling sideways even as his fingers closed around the hilt of the sword.

The crackling of multiple fires about the clearing blended with the noise of the last few serkets disappearing through the portal. He straightened with his hand on the trunk of the tree; his sword felt twice its weight and he hefted it to his shoulder for ease of movement without betraying weakness or exhaustion.

He stalked toward Gwaine, still visible above the ring of fire, close enough to watch the mercenary kneel and catch Merlin's boneless collapse to a prone sprawl in the dirt. Gwaine supported him gently, and his mouth was moving to speak to the younger man, though Arthur couldn't hear what he was saying.

"Is he all right?" he raised his own to ask.

Gwaine lifted his head and met Arthur's eyes to nod, releasing Merlin's black-tousled head to loll in the dust, bracing to push himself to his feet again. He looked as grim and weary as Arthur felt.

He skirted the ring of fire to see that the portal had vanished, but the two women – sorceresses both; it made sense that Morgause had magic, it explained the reason for her unorthodox challenge a year and a half ago – stood arguing yet again in the clearing before the valley plunging down between the statues of the two kings.

"Was that really an appropriate spell to use?" Nimueh was asking the younger woman coolly, shaking out wrinkles from her lavender-gray cloak. "One would think you'd never had proper training."

Morgause's whole body seemed sharp, somehow – dark eyes glaring daggers and ringlets like shaved steel, down to the sword she propped negligently point-down in the dirt. "I thank the goddess you were never my teacher," she spat back. "For-bearn a-quell-y? Really? Might as well set the whole forest on fire. But then, you always were criminally careless with your magic, and abysmally naïve-"

"You have no right to judge me!" Nimueh's voice rose a single degree toward strident.

And Arthur decided he'd had enough.

"Ladies," he said firmly, raising his voice again, and successfully catching their attention. "I thank you for your aid in ridding Camelot of these dangerous creatures, but now that our task is done I have a mind to retire from the field for the day."

He took a deep breath, and likely his life in his hands – though Nimueh at least seemed to have discarded the desire to kill him – and eyed them warily.

"Neither of you is officially welcome in Camelot, a fact which I'm willing to overlook today. Tomorrow, however…" It occurred to him to issue some sort of truce-invitation to bring their grievances to him publicly, to be heard and maybe negotiate, if they'd swear to temporary peace with their magic – and then hope they kept to it, though that was as likely as him succeeding in driving them off if they were determined not to go. He didn't get to weigh the decision or speak to suggest it, however.

"That's lovely," Nimueh said to him, temper still high – but ice, compared to Morgause's fire. "Not officially welcome in a place I helped build, though I daresay I wouldn't recognize it anymore-"

Conversely, Morgause gave him a rather nasty smile. "I wasn't welcome the first time, was I? Your father would have killed me as a child, would have thrown me out if he'd known I was a woman before you accepted my challenge…" She raised her blade, beginning to prowl toward him. "Maybe we should pit our skills against one another, again."

He adjusted his grip on his hilt, blade still resting on the shoulder of his chainmail, but didn't move into a more defensive stance. Her appearance was a surprise he hadn't had time to assess, but her two companions – Knights of Medhir, and where was the third of those left after the battle? – revealed _much_.

"You came with honor to challenge us, last year," he said slowly. "But now – you would raise these Knights, and… ally with Cenred. To come against us with armies and sorcery."

"Cenred," Nimueh sneered, "and swords. And necromancy." She gestured at the Knight waiting inhumanly patient not far from them, pinned to the trunk of a tree by a lucky spear-cast, undead and undying.

"You've done it before." Morgause shot a venomous glance at her, pausing in stalking toward Arthur. "I meant to lure you from Camelot last year," she said, facing him though her eyes remained on the other sorceress. "I meant to tell you exactly what _she'd_ done – what your father had done to your mother. And send you home in a fit of temper like the spoiled princeling you are."

He began to glimpse her driving motivation – she'd been associated with magic at a young age, but she wasn't that much older than he was. Still a child when his grieving father had declared her whole life evil and illegal and deserving only of termination. Loss of childhood and probably much more.

"However." Morgause tossed her head, lips curving cruelly. "I'm not displeased with my contingency plan."

"Contingency?" Arthur said incredulously. "You lost the battle – Cenred retreated, the Knights aren't even a challenge, so long as I've a blade blessed by Merlin's sense of right and wrong."

She sneered, then asked slyly, "How is your father these days?"

Arthur straightened instantly, inhaling through widened nostrils like she'd physically struck him. He had forgotten there was other magic used in that battle – before that battle. Nimueh looked interested, and he resisted the flush of humiliation to have the weakness of his father and his king revealed to enemies and strangers.

"You see, I have you here now," Morgause continued. "And your pet Caerleon in no shape to defend you."

Nimueh made a scornful noise, seating herself with dignity upon a fallen tree. "It is not your destiny to kill Arthur."

"Is it your destiny to put out the fires you've started?" Morgause snarled at her, irritated with her interruption or her presence or both.

Nimueh twitched her shoulders carelessly, looking about her at the flickering flames – some of which barred Gwaine from joining them, if he'd leave Merlin's side – then made a gesture. Tipping her face to the sky, she spoke a single word of spell-work he didn't understand. Above the smoke, dark gray clouds scudded and swirled, and the low grumble of thunder was scant warning before a steady downpour broke open on them – except for a small clear bubble where Nimueh sat, self-satisfied and dry.

 _Hells_ , Arthur complained to himself. It might clear the air, but it would drench them. One consolation was, Morgause wore chainmail as he and Gwaine did; she would be just as uncomfortable.

Her blade dipped and rose like she was catching raindrops on it. "That's not all I have," she taunted him, her eyes flashing. "I have a spy in your household."

He froze, blinking against the drops that trickled down from his hair, tucking his chin slightly to keep his eyes clear. "You lie," he growled.

"Someone who tells me when you come and go," she continued, "when you cry for your father. Someone who's got your pet sorcerer's heart in her pocket – someone who placed that enchantment on your father that drove him mad – someone who freed the goblin."

Rain trickled cold down the back of his neck. _No. She can't mean…_

"Someone who has the magic you hate, and hates you for your father's laws and murdering prejudice," she went on gleefully. "And do you know why I'm telling you this? Because you're not going to live long enough to return to Camelot at all. It's ours, now."

It couldn't be. Couldn't be… impossible. She was lying to distract him – it was working…

Maybe Morgause had kidnapped her, he told himself. Maybe she'd held her captive for a year, not because she was enchanting her as Merlin had once discussed with him, but because Morgana had held out that long against whatever threats or coercion had been employed… And no wonder, then, that she didn't want to talk about it.

He swung his sword down from his shoulder, and swiveled his wrist to let it arc around, calling on the reserves of his strength to wield what felt like increased weight. If this was what she wanted, fine. They'd settle it with steel, and he'd be quit of her.

But she didn't take the last two steps to engage. He caught his surprise before it could show on his face as Gwaine moved into position beside him, clearly determined to fight against her and with him. Fierce hope leaped up beneath his breastbone, warming and lifting him.

Morgause paused – then gestured to the side. The spear pinning the knight to the tree jerked itself loose, skidding away through last years' leaves that the persistent rain was plastering to the ground.

"You take Him," Gwaine suggested tersely, focused on Morgause. "Your sword…"

Was enchanted. But Arthur wasn't going to leave Gwaine to face Morgause in his place; this wasn't his fight at all save for the voluntary loyalty he'd declared to his prince – Arthur spared a thought for Merlin unconscious under the rain.

" _You_ take Him," he countered. "Keep him busy for me while I finish here." Morgause's eyes promised torture as well as death – flaying, and she could manage it. He lifted his chin and added to Gwaine, "I'll be with you in a moment."

Gwaine shifted, hesitated, then danced away on an angle to intercept the black knight, who was no more bothered by the downpour than by fire or sword or spear.

Morgause looked mad enough to spit nails – for a moment. Then her lips curled and her eyes brightened maliciously on an idea.

And her eyes brightened maliciously on _magic_ , as she tilted her head to the rain.

Downpour became deluge. He struggled for breath and sight, raising one arm uselessly against rain so close and heavy it could be sloshing violently from a great bucket overhead. His feet slipped; maybe he could make an exception, attacking a woman – she was armed, and using magic in a kind of attack.

His feet slipped again. Something coiled about his ankle, constricting around his boot, and yanked. His balance went flying and his hand lost his hilt. The world was a messy, muddy blur and he felt movement increasing in pace like he was sliding down a hillside and the hillside was sliding with him.

He didn't see Morgause, nor Nimueh, but the rain-distorted faces of the Kings stared down at him – he was tugged relentlessly into the valley and-

Plunged without warning into water. Deep cold water, and churning – more river than lake, but there wasn't either in the valley, it was-

Magic. Damn it.

He struggled for _up_ and _air_ , but equilibrium was hopelessly confused, and in any case his chainmail, all twenty pounds of it, was dragging him down to drowning. Exhaustion fought a losing battle – his arms flailed, his lungs burned-

He couldn't. He couldn't die. Camelot was… Camelot needed…

There was so much he hadn't… and couldn't…

Murky water filled his eyes and ears and nose and mouth, and he was alone and helpless and he was going to die.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin was drowning in the silence that poured down on him, roaring around him like the pulsing of his racing heart, like the beat of a thousand subtle insistent drums.

He choked, coughed, rolled over onto twenty new bruises searching for dry air-

And realized he was soaked. It was raining – he was still in the woods – everything was soaked in a muddy ashy chaos. The fires were out.

He remembered Gwaine; he looked around for Arthur, his neck achingly stiff.

There was Gwaine, exchanging blows with a Knight of Medhir – another, the last, or the one freed from the spear and the tree? Was Gwaine wielding one of the enchanted blades? – Merlin couldn't tell. He was defending himself adequately but giving ground, tired maybe in a way the Knight would never be again. The ringing of the two swords together punctuated the pounding rhythm of the rain all around.

And Arthur? He couldn't see Arthur.

He stuck an elbow in the mud, rolling off his hip to his knee, feeling like a colt or a calf, newborn and unsteady and uncertain. His feet shuffled under him and he wobbled toward the portal and the _mearcdenu_ -

To either side, each under one of the statued _bregum_ , he saw instead Nimueh and Morgana's sister – facing down the valley, steep and narrow as it was at this point, from his first impression.

He stumbled forward. Where the hell was Arthur?

A shout alerted him, but he stopped short of the boundary because the valley was a river, gray water churning and snarling in waves that fought magical constraints. Two magics, he recognized. One for the _tidrenas_ sheeting down all around. And one for – this.

"This is not your destiny either," Nimueh was chiding the other, whose blonde curls were stringing wetly over her face and down the back of her black cloak.

"I'm not killing him," Morgana's sister – what was her name? he couldn't remember if he's ever heard it - retorted without looking at the older sorceress. "The water is."

And a smudge of submerged scarlet showed in a trough between waves, and an upraised hand, fingers stretching wide, dropped back beneath the surface. Merlin almost vomited with the realization, managing instead to yelp out the word, " _No_!"

Both women turned to look at him. Dimly he heard Gwaine yelling something behind him.

Morgana's sister gave him a viciously triumphant smirk. "You can't help him," she declared. "Try so much as lighting a candle right now, and you'll knock yourself out for a few hours at least."

Nimueh gave him a sympathetic look, though evidently her concern didn't extend to action or interference. And Morgana's sister was right, he knew. He was sick and empty and cold, transparent and collapsing in on himself like rain-drenched parchment.

"Damn you," he gritted out.

And launched himself through the _mearcdenu_ , aiming a flat surface dive for the place where he'd last seen Arthur. Maybe his magic couldn't help Arthur, but he wasn't going to stand there and watch to see what became of his friend, either.

A single second before his body struck and cleaved the water, he could have sworn he heard a different female voice scream his name.

" _Merlin_!"

Beneath the surface, he was blind and deaf. His feet were leaden and the rest of him ached, but he didn't waste time trying to grope through the water.

He headed for the bottom. It wasn't encouraged, but there had been times in the past when he'd swam the Cove in Caerleon that the fortress was named for, and it wasn't much different than this - treacherous with roiling sediment.

There was a moment when he knew he'd passed between the bregum, he could feel it – sentient regard and warning. There was another moment for a memory of Gaius' warning scrambled with Alator's instruction – birthplace of magic, time itself pivots – Arthur wouldn't have time for him to seek the surface for a second breath.

Good thing he'd had practice lately, functioning without sufficient air.

The valley floor was littered with stone that had fallen away from weathering walls – he kicked out and struck his shin against one so hard his whole leg went numb and he nearly gasped a lungful of water.

Water that fought him lethargically, smothering him, burying him with silt and despair.

 _Hells… Arthur…_

Disturbance swirled against him, the fingers of his right hand up his arm and down his flank and he kicked desperately in that direction, fingers straining-

Brushing a spread of smooth, even bumps that instinct recognized though it was unfamiliar.

Chainmail.

He gripped, snatching the mail-wrapped body into an anxious embrace, arching his whole being toward the surface, the portal between a watery grave and the air they needed for life.

It was still raining; he almost didn't realize they were out as his body reached his own border of endurance and his lungs expanded to fill the void with – rain-scented air.

Arthur's head was just under his jaw, knocking into him so that he bit his tongue. His fisted his hand in the armpit of the older prince's tunic, his elbow bent around the muscle of Arthur's chest and the chainmail over his back gouging furrows in Merlin's ribs beneath the clinging fabric of his shirt.

The world was still fluid. The _bregum_ bobbed irritably above him, and he thrashed toward the break between them, unsure of his directions, else.

Every stroke was a grunt of air released unwilling from his starved lungs. His shin felt split to the bone, weighted and unwieldy, banging against Arthur's legs.

Then his reaching arm grabbed at a handful of sodden mud and stuck. He realized he could feel the bank – the sloping ground – under his right side, and squirmed to drag Arthur higher up, further out of the water-

Was it receding now? He wasn't crawling that fast…

And then he collapsed, panting and barely holding his face above inches of sloppy, soupy mud. He had an elbow under him – slowly sinking into the sludge of the ground beneath him – and blinked particles of dirt and leaf from his eyes as Arthur convulsed, rolling slightly away from him to choke and vomit-

Merlin almost gave up on consciousness again right then, from simple and overwhelming relief. Instead he flopped half on top of Arthur, trembling uncontrollably and laughing so he wouldn't sob.

They were alive.

But… that didn't mean they were safe.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

 _(7 years ago)_

Morgana's hand and wrist still ached, and she fussed with the lace on her sleeve as Gwen arranged her curls over her shoulders.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" her maid asked worriedly. Nothing much was missed by Gwen's keen dark eyes, and usually Morgana felt lucky that such a smart, observant girl was her unquestioned ally.

Maybe not today, and in this. She'd already refused a visit to Gaius once.

"It's fine, Gwen," she said, lifting her chin and yanking the lace a little lower to disguise the bruising, then forcing herself to leave it alone.

"He's just, grown a lot," Gwen went on, showing signs of talking too much in her slight anxiety, straightening the fall of Morgana's silk skirts. "When did he get so tall? And his shoulders are _wide_ , now, and you can't really see muscle under the chainmail, but…"

But she could definitely feel it. When she sparred with Arthur – which wasn't often because Uther didn't exactly approve of the two of _them_ fighting - she teased and teased and sometimes she could get him to abandon the reserve he wielded against her, proper and aloof as a gentleman the way he wasn't when he fought against any boy on the field.

Today he'd slipped. She could never guess what sarcasm might slide between the joints of his invisible armor to find its mark – and she couldn't now remember whatever it was she'd said that had sparked his temper.

But then he _fought_ , as if he'd forgotten who she was. That she was a lady, and his father's ward. Briefly – moments only, before he was drawing back into himself, lowering his sword and giving her an apology and a little bow.

Too late. Her sword was on the ground at her feet and her hand smarting from trying to catch the full strength of his blow on her blade, and the rest of her arm was numb to the elbow.

"You sound like you've been looking at him," Morgana responded, light-heartedly accusing.

"It's hard not to, when you're sparring with him," Gwen countered, still focused on Morgana's appearance, jeweled curls to jeweled slippers, with a devotion to detail that raised the color in her cheeks. "I think he's turning into a bully. Do you think so? Like Owain and Pellinor."

Morgana snorted. "I am distinctly unimpressed with the squires," she said. "They're so juvenile."

"Well, you'll conquer them all, dressed like this," Gwen murmured, admiring the results of her work on Morgana's hair and costume rather than answering her comment. "You look _so_ grown-up…"

"And if he keeps spending time with them…" Morgana continued her thought, but was interrupted by a quick, light knock on the door of her chamber.

Gwen straightened, meeting her eyes with a questioning look. They weren't late yet; it was her birthday banquet and everyone else should be assembled before she made her grand entrance. "Now, who…" the maid mumbled, skipping to open the door a crack to check the identity of the person who'd knocked.

Her soft gasp stiffened Morgana's spine. Gwen gave her a wide-eyed look, hiding behind the door as she pulled it open to reveal-

Prince Arthur. Of all people.

He stood awkwardly, one hand tucked behind his belt, one fisted and drawn in to his body defensively. He'd washed since the training field and the match she'd taunted him to accept – he was perversely pleased to invent any range of excuses to turn her down, usually, true or obviously not. His hair was dark damp gold, blue eyes wary, lightened by the pale hue of the tunic he wore over his white blouse.

He ignored Gwen to glance uncertainly around her room. He'd never come to her door before, in the four years she'd been living here.

She wasn't sure what to do, now that he had. Was it her victory, then? or his, somehow? Whose advantage-

"Morgana," he said; he and his father and rarely Gwen were the only people who didn't use her title til she was sick of it, here in Camelot. "I – came to give you. This."

He brought out his hidden hand, offering a small bundle wrapped in what looked like one of his white handkerchiefs, tied with a piece of leather thong.

She stared at it, at him.

A line appeared between his brows as he contemplated the object himself – then his eyes sought Gwen's, still half-behind the door. The maid whipped her head around, cheeks dusky-scarlet, to implore Morgana with a glance.

"Do you want to-" she said stiffly- "come in? for a minute?"

"Thank you," he said, stepping over the threshold, but coming no further than two paces, enough for Gwen to close the door, if she had thought to. There was nothing inappropriate in that; she and Arthur had been instructed to consider each other as siblings by the king often enough, and it was the way she discussed the relationship with Gwen, who also had an annoying brother.

"I – might have waited," he added into the silence. His hand drooped slightly. "Til the banquet. Except it's… not…"

It was a birthday present, she realized, belatedly and stupidly. Though she might be excused, for every previous year, the gift from Arthur had been rich and elaborate and impersonal enough for her to suspect he'd actually had very little to do with it. Funds given by the king for the purpose, and delegated to one of his servants to perform.

And this year, instead of polished caskets and carved boxes and silk or satin lining… what? a joke? an insult?

"Maybe you won't like it," he said suddenly, and his ears were red. "It was – it probably wasn't a good idea after all, but I wanted to… ah. Say I was sorry? About earlier. On the… training field."

And he'd never sought her out to speak to her on purpose, before. She approached him slowly, intrigued but uncertain, herself.

The squires were juvenile. He could easily be giving her something… troublesome, in one way or another, for laughs, though he'd never done anything like that, preferring to ignore her whenever he could, and partly for fear that she'd-

"Is this because you're afraid I'll complain to your father about our match?" she demanded.

His arm must have been getting tired, extended to hold the object; it was definitely wilting.

"No," he said. Red spots showed on the tops of his cheeks – not so childishly round anymore – to match his ears. "I am sorry for losing my temper, and if I hurt you. And you can tell my father anyway, I won't blame you."

She was slightly unbalanced by his sincerity. It was not their way. And even though he was likely to be punished if she told Uther that his son had harmed her – even in a sparring match she'd provoked – he meant what he said. He hadn't apologized to pacify her in hopes that she wouldn't tattle.

"This is for you anyway," he added, lifting his hand again.

And she took the little object. It was lighter than she expected, hard and solid. She picked the leather thong untied with her fingernails. He shifted his weight and tucked his hands away again, settling maybe unconsciously into the attitude he'd adopted to bear his father's regard in public. When the king so often found fault with him – studies, training, random incidents, careless words – and rarely, grudgingly offered words of offhand praise like a handful of copper coins thrown from a carriage and stuck between the cobblestones to be searched for and dug out of their settings. Not like the way the king spoke to her. Smiles in abundance and lavish compliments like sugary treats for every meal when sometimes she wanted bread or salty meat or tart fruit.

The material of his handkerchief unfolded, and she stared dumbly at a slightly misshapen turtle, carved not-very-skillfully from wood. Recognizable and finished and smoothed, but never anything a prince would buy, which meant-

She raised her eyes to his. He wouldn't meet them.

"It's not meant to be that. You're slow, or anything. You're not, you're faster than I am, you're better, it's just… I'm stronger now. I don't want you to feel bad that you can't beat me anymore."

He was embarrassed that he was growing up. His body was rewarding him at the same time that hers was betraying her. Nearly two years older than her, they'd been of similar height and strength for several years now, which had allowed her to catch up to his level of swordplay – and surpass him by enough to frustrate and unsettle him and win.

Even though she'd never actually _won_ him, not the way she'd won everyone else in Camelot. Not until today.

"So that's…" he added lamely, still looking at his turtle – with mild distaste, like he wasn't sure if he should snatch it back and run. "To say sorry for. Earlier. And… Happy Birthday. My lady." He made her an awkward bow – and usually he was graceful when he was courteous. Distant. This time it felt, for the first time, like he was bowing to _her_ , not just to convention or his father's requirements of civil behavior.

He turned to go and she snatched at the moment, to hold it like she held his handiwork – hours of it, she suspected. Which meant he'd started it long before today, before he'd slipped his control and overpowered her and won their sword-match.

"Arthur!" He hesitated, his eyes on her rather than the turtle, now, and she felt awkward too. Because she'd only – occasionally – let Gwen see her feelings past cool ladylike control. "Thank you. For this. And – about earlier. I'm fine." She could see that he realized, she wasn't going to talk to anyone about it.

He nodded, almost another bow.

"I'll see you at the banquet," she added, not quite a question because of course he'd be required to attend whether he wanted to or not, and he usually ignored her while being attentive enough to satisfy his father. But… she didn't want to be ignored, any more. She wanted to… she wanted to know him. Not to win, but to… understand. To ally?

Yes, that was acceptable.

He gave her a true smile, like she'd caught on his face before, but never had directed to her. Relief and an offering of more, in a crooked self-conscious half-grin. "Don't be too late."

And then he was gone, swinging around her doorway and leaping – it sounded like – down all the stairs to the broad landing at once.

He wasn't Acollyn – no one ever would be – and maybe he wouldn't do everything she wanted, every time, but… maybe he would be worthwhile, anyway.

Gwen pushed the door closed behind him, eyes still wide with surprise at the visit. "Well, that was," she paused. "He's… not completely vile."

"No," Morgana murmured, rubbing her thumb over the bumpy surface of the turtle's back. "No, he's not… completely vile."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana was worried. Tense, and worried.

Leon was in pain, even if he – and Gwen – reassured them it wasn't life-threatening, or cause for stopping or leaving him behind.

"I think something's broken? or cracked?" Gwen leaned close from her own mount to say to Morgana in an undertone. "Ribs, collarbone, something in his shoulder…"

He wasn't letting it slow them down, though, riding in the lead with Acollyn, and it chilled Morgana to hear the reason. "The sorceress - Nimueh," he'd said. "And the Questing Beast. And Merlin was going to open the third portal today, around that piece the king has him shackled with. I came here for reinforcements – found Him just killing everyone, but no sign of the others. And if Nimueh raised Them to send against Camelot, what will she do with Arthur unprotected and Merlin exhausted?"

Nimueh hadn't raised the Knights of Medhir, though Morgana couldn't tell them that and explain how she knew it. It might not matter anyway, if the sorceress who _had_ raised the Knights, was here in the forrest.

And then it started to rain, clouds scudding and gathering in an unnatural way, and all the others - except Leon – looked at her as though, since she was capable of wielding magic, that meant she understood what was happening every time someone else used magic.

And then there were the carcasses of serkets – great shell-covered beasts curled up, brittle and charred and unmoving. They all spooked to see that, but there was no sign of others in the area.

"What the hell?" Acollyn said uneasily, and didn't even seem to realize his use of language in front of ladies.

And the shout and clash of one man in chainmail – Morgana didn't recognize him – fighting a lone Knight. Maybe injured or weary; he was giving ground in a way that said he was trying to maneuver the black knight unsuccessfully in a specific direction.

"Will the sword still work?" Acollyn demanded of her tersely.

"It should," she responded, uncertainty stemming from her unfamiliarity with that particular spell.

And he was off again, sliding from his saddle and sprinting forward to help the unknown knight against the one from Medhir. Without dismounting, she searched the clearing and the area around it – she'd never been to the Valley of the Fallen Kings – for any sign of her sister. If a Knight was here–

So was Morgause. At the base of a huge statue three times her height, facing another such across maybe five paces of ground. There was another woman at the foot of the other statue, dark-haired and light-cloaked. Nimueh, then. Merlin stood a little nearer Morgana's party with his back to them, facing the women, his Caerleon indigo muddied and soaked from the rain.

And between the women, down from the statues, a river or narrow pond or the inlet of a lake rose impossibly – magically – higher than the ground.

 _What? Why-_

Inexplicably, Merlin threw himself forward, between the women, muscles gathering and arms rising with a clear intent to dive into that water and-

What was he thinking?

" _Merlin_!" she shrieked, so vehemently her horse startled beneath her.

He didn't stop, flinging himself into the water to disappear.

Gwen gave her a worried-questioning look, dismounting. Elyan was already down, helping Leon to the ground from his saddle. Morgana didn't feel the ground beneath her feet til the third step, til Leon called out and she twisted instinctively to give him at least momentary attention.

"Wait," he said in white agony. Not just for his injury and not just to make her stop and think or listen, but – _wait for me, wait for us_.

She didn't. Not even pausing, she flew forward.

Loyalties were colliding, she realized distantly, dispassionately, but she couldn't feel any personal concern for that. They'd discover the secret of her sister, as they'd discovered her magic – and possibly, probably, what had been done to fulfill Morgause's plans against Uther's tyranny. Judgement and censure was a risk that didn't even register in the moment when Acollyn faced another Knight – and Morgause might take exception to that and attack him, and Morgana never had been enough of a match for her older sister to make her stop and listen. And Merlin was lost in the water somewhere and-

"Where's Arthur?" she called urgently. "What are you doing?"

"Arthur's gone for a little swim," Morgause informed her, dark eyes snapping with satisfaction as she gestured to a pond's worth of water roiling in the narrow area beyond the two statues. "I doubt he'll be coming back."

"We'll see," the other woman – Nimueh – murmured, eyes fixed to the churning surface.

"What do you mean?" Morgana demanded of her sister, swallowing against something that _wasn't_ hysteria, rising in her chest. "Why did Merlin-"

"He's gone to save Arthur," Nimueh answered, sparing her a glance before tossing at Morgause, "This is your spy? the king's ward?"

Morgana bristled at the term. "I'm her sister."

Nimueh snorted, throwing a gesture between them to show, she'd noticed the similarity in how they were dressed, trousers and mail. "And magic, yes? No wonder you want the Pendragons dead, also."

"I don't want them dead." Morgana turned to Morgause. "If Arthur's in there and Merlin's gone after him-" How long? she saw no trace of either, surfacing for air. "You've got to help them. You've got to-"

"I'm helping _you_ ," Morgause interrupted, blazingly intense sincerity. "I'm helping all of us. Cleanse the land of Pendragons once and for all."

"If you can," Nimueh added lightly.

Morgana couldn't believe her ears. "No! Not Arthur! He's better than his father, he's going to be regent, he's negotiating with Merlin, who's a magic-user – this is what we wanted!"

"That is what _you_ wanted!" Morgause flashed – then flung a hand at the chaotic waves before and below them. " _This_ is what I wanted! Purge the land of Uther's evil – and you'll thank me for it!"

Morgana's incredulous yelp, " _What_?" was covered as her sister kept speaking.

"I told him everything. He's going to hate you, for your magic, for your subterfuge, for what you did to his father. He'll see you dead for all of that, unless he's dead."

Shock rendered her incapable of movement. She realized distantly that the name of the feeling was _betrayal_. Morgause gave her a triumphant smile, as if of course her giving Arthur this information would persuade Morgana's divided loyalty to gather in her favor again. And Morgana didn't have even a split second to think, whether she still wanted Arthur to reappear.

"There they are," Nimueh remarked.

Morgana's gasp caught halfway down her throat as her muscles clenched. It was worse than stumbling through the bandit camp and seeing the evidence of violence. Arthur was limp; Merlin was bone-white and desperately grim. With one arm wrapped around Arthur's chest, he completely ignored them in his struggle for the edge of the magically-gathered water. Their progress was slow and ragged and tenuous; their heads dipped so low at the end of each single-armed stroke she wasn't sure if they'd come back up, every time.

Before she knew it, she was knee-deep in the water, soaking cold down into her boots – the valley floor descended sharply here – reaching for them.

"Help them," she tossed over her shoulder – toward Nimueh. Because in the pit of her stomach she was afraid that Morgause would use magic – or her hands – to push Arthur and Merlin back under the water.

Nimueh spoke, and the water rushed its unnatural bounds, flowing away down the valley, sinking away down Morgana's legs. Merlin seemed to find the ground beneath the swirling muddy water and half-crawled, still towing Arthur. He hadn't looked up to see them at all – maybe lost in focusing shock and exhaustion to complete this self-appointed mission.

Morgana took another step to help him with Arthur – was he breathing? – and Morgause caught her by the arm, exactly as she'd gripped her to walk her down Cenred's corridors to the bedroom that locked her in, for her own safety.

"He'll kill you!" her sister declared vehemently.

Morgana tried to shrug her off. "He _won't_."

Not just because he _couldn't_ – trembling on his side in the mud and retching filthy water as Merlin huddled over him, gasping and shuddering himself. Because he _wouldn't_. He'd listen to her, explanation and apology and whatever else came out of her mouth, until she was done. And then, whatever he felt – the betrayal that had just struck her sideways? – he'd think and decide and try to be fair. He'd try to be _just_ , and that was what was going to make him a good king. See how he'd handled Merlin – an enemy warrior and a sorcerer, who had just risked himself to save Arthur's life, because he knew his enemy was worth saving.

"You're being naïve," Morgause snapped. "He's his father's son, and-"

A shout of challenge made them both turn, startled – to find that the last Knight was nowhere to be seen. Instead, four men strode toward them, each armed with a bared blade. Morgana flicked her gaze between them to see Gwen securing their mounts, before focusing again on the four.

Elyan the blacksmith, Leon in stern discomfort, off arm clutched close to his side, and the unfamiliar shaggy-haired knight or guard in chainmail whose attention was on Arthur and Merlin. And Acollyn at the end, wearing Camelot's dragon over Trevena's colors, furious and intent and Morgana's heart skipped nervously in her chest, aware that she was facing the four of them from between two other sorceresses. Her conscience whispered, _whose side are you on_ …

But when Acollyn spoke, he addressed Morgause. "Get your hands off her."

Morgause tensed to gesture, and Morgana flung herself at her sister's arm to ruin the aim of her spell. Scrambling away from the statue-guarded mouth of the valley, Nimueh snapped something that sent both Leon and Elyan flying, and Morgause shook Morgana off to the muddy ground.

"You _will_ thank me for this," she snarled at Morgana – clenching her fist to lock Acollyn and the stranger-knight into unmoving positions in spite of shouts and grunts and glares. Then she spoke another enchantment that Morgana recognized by three words. " _Slimas – cwicum – cwellan_!"

Muddy-earth, come to life… and kill.

 **A/N: As far as spell-work goes.** _ **Cume hay fyrbryne**_ **is the spell Merlin uses to attack the wraith in "Excalibur".** _ **Mearcdenu**_ **is the term Merlin's used for Valley, and the spell for the portal is translated in Chapter 22… When Morgause mocks Nimueh's spells in Arthur's pov, I've written it as he would have heard it, an unfamiliar ear.**

 **Sorry this is a little late – I was gone over the weekend. But it's also longer – and I'm well on my way with the next chapter! So the cliffie shouldn't leave you hanging for long…**


	26. Sudden Death

**Chapter 26: Sudden Death**

Gwaine decided he'd had it with folks showing up out of nowhere in this damn spooky clearing, and he had no idea if they were friend or foe, or anything in-between. Enemy with whom there is an understanding, kin with whom there is nothing in common whatsoever. He was Merlin's, but life had never been more complicated.

Fire that tickled, rain that voluntarily rolled up together to swallow men whole in valleys that became lakes. Knights that wore an approximation of Camelot's standard – and not all of them would feel friendly toward his sorcerer-prince – and had enchanted swords that could kill Knights of Medhir. He knew that story, and this was the last one, wasn't it? Knights that arrived with Sir Leon the noble and good, Gwaine's new blacksmith acquaintance, a girl who looked like she could be his kin, and a lady who dressed and acted like the blonde witch who'd attacked Arthur, and argued with her familiarly.

The witch who currently held both him and the newly-arrived knight in the hold of her magic, unmoving.

Hells' sake, he was tired of women arguing. The blonde held a sword, but ignored the challenges he tried to holler at her. Settle this like men, since she dressed like one…

Then she was speaking another phrase that he'd come to recognize, if not understand – magic.

By damn, he'd had enough.

But he was forced to stand helpless as the earth came to life like the water had, ripples rolling through the mud, tossing up sticky peaks – higher and higher in the blink of an eye-

And all centered on Arthur, who was maybe half-conscious at best, after Merlin had dragged them from the witch's magical lake. Waves of mud flopped over Arthur's form – he squirmed in alarm, but without sufficient energy to escape – he was being buried alive.

"Hey, witch!" Gwaine roared desperately, to distract her. "How about you pick a fight with someone who hates you as much as magic?"

Merlin struggled to his knees to begin digging at the mud around and atop Arthur's body with his bare hands – a losing battle and by the look on his face and the frantic desperation in his movements, he knew it.

"What's the matter?" Gwaine continued, more than a little wildly. "You can't catch a man without using magic on him first?"

She curled a lip at him at that, but otherwise ignored him.

Dammit.

Merlin lifted his head suddenly – boy had scary-amazing reserves of strength in that skinny body; he was going to make a terrifyingly talented king – but his face was white and his eyes were large and tragic.

 _What? Whatever you need, I'll do it…_ Gwaine tensed in response, though for what he coldn't have said, and pushed with all his might against the witch's magic.

Merlin's eyes flashed gold, and Gwaine was free.

But if Merlin with his magic couldn't help Arthur – rolling to his back and trying to sit up, wide-eyed and gasping with shock, before being pulled back down – couldn't fight the enchantment, what could Gwaine-

Arthur's sword was on the ground, two paces from him and near enough that he could bend to reach it as he rushed forward, and _it was enchanted to kill magic_.

Merlin rose on one knee, reaching like he expected Gwaine to pass him the weapon – maybe he should? couldn't he fight a witch with steel after all? and what could he do against _mud_ with a sword?

"No, you don't!" the witch snarled, making a gesture like she was shaking her fist at him.

Gwaine's feet hit the mud that was boiling around Arthur and Merlin, _stuck_ – and slipped backward, so abruptly the rest of his body flew forward, chin to the earth, losing his grip on Arthur's sword.

The dark-haired girl in trousers and fine-mail scrambled up from the ground – moments only since the blonde had pushed her down, and attacked her with her fists, hitting and gripping her shoulders, shrieking, "Stop it! _Stop it_!"

Some part of the spell was broken – the newcomer knight rushed past Gwaine toward the two women, but the blonde shoved the other toward him as distraction or impediment. He caught her, their balance slipping separately and together, but before Gwaine could so much as plant his palms in preparation to rise, the blonde darted to the side, making another motion as her eyes flashed magic.

And the mud seized the sword Gwaine had lost – Arthur's sword, enchanted by Merlin – and yanked it fast and straight as an arrow, right into Arthur's side.

The prince of Camelot cried out in pain, curling around the weapon – Gwaine made it to his knees – that seemed both firmly and deeply lodged in his flank.

"No, _no_!" Merlin cried, lunging across Arthur's body and attempting to grab or hinder the blade with his bare hands. It thrashed in the mud like a maddened pike, and Arthur screamed and writhed in reaction.

Merlin retreated to his knees, mud-spattered halfway up his shirt, past his elbows on his sleeves. The look on his face was furious anguish – he reached to wind his fingers around the necklace that was meant to block his magic and _roared_ his defiance.

Something was glowing – his hands, the silver chain, his eyes his whole face – and it brightened so suddenly and completely that light seemed to explode from Merlin.

Gwaine grinned, and ducked.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin watched it happen, and did nothing.

Arthur's sword – he recognized it; he'd enchanted it – flew in a short arc, splattered into the mud pointing right toward them.

His first instinct was to call it to his hand, as he'd done with his own blade time and again at Caerleon's training grounds. This was how he fought with magic – sealing hilt to hand so he couldn't be disarmed through an opponent's skill or his own clumsiness.

If he could even climb to his feet, and keep his balance to menace Morgause – Morgana's sister, and now he knew her name – and force her to _stop_.

"Stop, stop!"

Morgana was screeching the word, over and over, and her sister ignored her. And when had she arrived? Must've been riding all morning…

The sword didn't stop. Didn't settle into the ooze.

Rather it slid forward, gaining momentum and he wasn't calling it and he couldn't stop it and Arthur hadn't recovered breath or consciousness enough to avoid it-

Striking him in the side hard enough to punch a cry from his lungs and double him up around the wound.

And Merlin was so damn useless. On his knees in the same mud, disarmed and drained and restrained. He launched himself at the blade, trying to grip it, remove it like he might an arrow – at least stop it digging its way deeper into Arthur's body if that had been part of the enchantment.

"No," he panted, as it avoided him. " _No_!"

And Arthur screamed, kicking out involuntarily in trying to escape the pain still inflicted and exacerbated.

Merlin pulled back.

Not a retreat, because warriors of Caerleon did not retreat, they did not give up, they shrieked defiance in the face of fate itself and he _would not_ lose Arthur. Camelot could not lose Arthur. Not and leave it unprotected.

His hands rose to the chain at his neck, where there was no clasp or catch, only endlessness – but there was a dent. And he was determined to have it _off_ – enough childish games of perspective _I will not have it_ –

He pulled, with all his might, with all his strength, with all his magic, howling and feeling it cut into his skin over and between the bones of his spine. This was the birthplace of magic, this was where time tilted backward and endlessness began and… _ended_.

The links exploded, each one severed from the next, voluntarily and immediately. The pieces flew like tiny silver dragonflies, out and away from him, wild in their freedom, to burrow and vanish in the mud all around them. He ignored everyone else in the clearing – all these people and he was the closest and none of them had saved Arthur – to bend over his friend, banishing mud with a sweep of his arm so he could see-

Shouldn't it be reddened, shouldn't there be blood, he could see only half of Arthur's sword sinking lifelessly into the mud.

He braced his knees against Arthur's ribs, his fingers flying to pull, to search – link by link of these chains and where were they damaged, where had they torn apart?

The sword shifted beneath Arthur. The chainmail was unbroken, and Arthur's eyes were clear and angry as he snarled in pain and tried to catch and reject Merlin's hasty-clumsy touch.

"Bloody _hells_ , not so rough!"

Arthur's struggles stilled somewhat as his own palm flattened against his ribcage. Oh-so-gingerly, and he cringed and Merlin realized – chainmail would turn a blade like the iron-sewn leather he was used to would not, but the force of a blow often meant bones broke. Ribs, one or more than one.

Three paces away, Gwaine was sitting up on his haunches, intent on Arthur and still ready to fight if necessary. Past him at a sprint splashed Gwen, who slid to her knees at Arthur's head, reaching to gather him up in a fiercely desperate embrace, searching his side herself as if dreading the mortal wound but determined to find and begin to treat it anyway.

Arthur was surprised breathless by the unexpected suddenness of her arrival – though it was less astonishing to Merlin, knowing that Morgana had come - reaching upward for her face but reacting with increased pain to her touch.

And in a flurry of lavender-gray cloak, Nimueh was knelt at Arthur's other side, careless of the blade half-hidden beneath him.

"Where is he hurt?" she demanded, ignoring Gwen's hands to address Merlin. "Don't try to heal him, after how you've used your magic today there's no telling what it will-"

"Hells!" Arthur growled, giving the word three syllables in his agonized attempt to retreat from her examination.

"Be still and be quiet!" she ordered. "I can heal-"

Broken ribs weren't necessary life-threatening unless they splintered or shifted to pierce organs or lungs, but Merlin had a single moment of relief – _yes, we can trust her for this, there's no pretense or ulterior motive in the desperation of the moment_ -

Before Nimueh _jolted_ with a gasp of pain and surprise, arching slightly and letting her hands flutter uselessly, red lips open and blue eyes terrified.

And four inches of blade divided her cloak nearly in the center of her chest.

In the time it took her to inhale the disbelief in her own mortality, she was gone. Eyes blank, lips slack, hands tumbling lifelessly to her lap. Head lolling and body tipping sideways to the earth.

Merlin lifted his eyes up three feet of sharp bloodied steel to meet the darkly triumphant gaze of the witch's murderess.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur's last clear thought was of the certainty of his death, drowning in magically called and contained rain.

Then he felt someone's arms, fingers clawing and latching through the tiny holes in his chainmail. And the air on his face, and soft earth beneath him. He felt the earth turn liquid and begin to swallow him up and he tried to swim again, and couldn't be sure he was moving at all.

He felt an almighty and disastrous _punch_ to his left side, stealing his breath again as his body broke open and leaked pain and who knew what else, and someone's hands trying to help only made it worse.

His first clear sight was of Merlin's blue eyes, scared and determined, and Arthur growled at him to _take care_ , if he cared. "Bloody hells, not so rough!"

And it might have been only a dream anyway because there was Guinevere with tears brightening the worry in her eyes, but she was safe in Camelot, not kneeling in the mud in the forest. Her touch made his attention swerve from caressing comforting fingertips down her face, to the pain her fingers were causing in his side.

A blur of memory and impression and disbelief, obliterated by a flash of light that made him think of angels and heaven and life ending in glory rather than degradation.

Then Nimueh's eyes, startling sapphire, reminded him – along with compounded agony as she prodded his ribs – that he hadn't crossed to another realm yet. She answered his gasped curse with an order-

"Be still and be quiet. I can heal…"

But Merlin hadn't trusted her magic to remove the chain Uther had caused locked around his neck and his magic…

 _I was there when you were born._ Her eyes said _, I won't be there when you die._

He trusted that. No matter how she hated his father, no matter how careless she'd been in her revenge, attacking indiscriminately and hurting innocent people and causing casualties, he trusted this as her intention in the moment, even though he didn't feel like he was _dying_. Pain tore at him with every breath, throbbed through him in waves at every touch – but it didn't worsen and he didn't weaken. Healing would be better than this, and especially under these circumstances.

He braced himself to feel magic as he'd never felt it before.

But her eyes didn't glow golden. They flared wide in fear and pain – confusion – blankness. He didn't realize that he'd watched Nimueh die until her body slid limply off the bloodied sword-

In Morgause's hand.

The rain stopped – drops pattering lightly, then randomly, then not at all – and he knew that Nimueh was dead.

And then, it didn't matter whether Morgause had told him the truth about Morgana. It didn't matter where her allegiance lay, or whether she'd raised and lost the fabled Knights of Medhir.

Arthur put out his hands – encountering mud and Merlin. "Get me up," he growled, keeping his eyes on the blonde witch. It was a command that tolerated no hesitation or disagreement. "Get me up."

Merlin's hands and arms were bone-iron, slender and resolute, and he never said a word. Arthur's other hand slapped at sticky muck twice – Gwen's hands distant but strong through mud and chainmail on his back – and Gwaine was at his side once again to support his grip and get him to his feet.

Unsteady feet, and unsteady breath, and red-hot pain shot through his left side. But he didn't topple and his vision stayed clear enough, and when he opened and closed his fingers impatiently, the hilt of his sword appeared in them, whether it was Gwaine or Guinevere that had bent to retrieve the weapon.

Morgause watched him with a small mocking smile. "What do you think you can do to me?"

"I can judge you guilty of murder," he said. "And therefore, deserving of death by-"

"Death by fire, I know," she interrupted, glancing to the side.

Arthur followed her eyes with a flick of his own, and after the day he'd had, wasn't terribly surprised to see Morgana - braid and trousers and mail-shirt like she'd sometimes worn to the training field – leaning back against Acollyn of Trevena. She gripped the arms he restrained her with as though they were the only things keeping her upright.

"You see, he is very much like his father," Morgause said to Morgana, before looking back at Arthur. "Except you're forgetting one thing – Nimueh had magic. I only did what you'd do anyway, what your father would do – but at least I was quick and merciful."

That was all totally beside the point.

"You don't have the right to judge anyone guilty within the bounds of my kingdom," he said, and wished he had the strength to point his sword at her. It was doubtful he could lift it, or keep it raised at any angle, any length of time. "You don't decide what justice is, in Camelot. You don't pass sentence, you don't enact punishment. That is _not_ your burden to assume."

"She was a sorceress," Morgause reminded him sharply, mockingly. "She doesn't deserve justice, or a trial. Her sentence is death as a matter of course, and execution summary. You should thank me. Perhaps you should pay me an executioner's fee."

"I condemn you," Arthur said. "It doesn't matter who she is or what she did-"

"She was magic!" Morgause exclaimed, exasperated, beginning to lose her self-assured superiority.

"I don't care!" he responded.

She drew back, and there was a moment of hushed silence. He realized it was true, what he'd said _, I don't care_ _if she was magic_ – but it was also momentous.

He repeated, "I don't care. It's not your magic I condemn. It's your actions – the attacks you've made and the lives you've endangered and this one life you took. You stand guilty of murder, not magic, and-"

"And I would like to see you try to arrest me!" Morgause spat, angry again instead of coolly amused. She raised her sword – and her off-hand, open palm ready for magic.

It was fight Arthur couldn't win – nor would he ask anyone else there to fight it for him, even now. He took one step forward, muscles pulling raggedly at his side as his left hand joined his right on the hilt of his sword, beginning to ascend toward defense.

And suddenly Morgana was there, between his blade and her sister, facing him.

"Stop," she said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana was distantly grateful for Acollyn's strong hands holding her in spite of the mud her sister had pushed her down into. Subconsciously glad for the strength of his body holding her up because-

If not for him, she might have collapsed in a disbelieving stupor. Reliving the sight of her beloved older sister, lost and unknown and then returned by a gift of the fates to be everything Morgana thought she wanted – comrade-sister, protective older sibling, fellow conspirator in exploring forbidden knowledge, hero to rescue her from her ivory-tower-prison. A mentor.

But Morgause wasn't any of those things. Strength wasn't refusing to re-evaluate ideals for mistakes. It wasn't weighing others' worth in terms of personal plans rather than intrinsic, objective value.

She had looked at Morgause and she had seen what she wanted to see – not what was there. She'd let Morgause convince her to believe her words, rather than the evidence of her own eyes.

Arthur was actively re-evaluating his ideals to discover and discard mistakes. He'd accepted an enemy with magic as an equal, had negotiated with him in a show of trust.

Merlin had risked his own death to save Arthur's life, when two weeks ago they'd been nothing to each other but hated enemies. He'd exhausted himself giving them his magic to make Camelot a safer place, with no assurance other than Arthur's word that he'd be rewarded with his freedom.

Gwen had been a comrade-sister more years of their lives than not, and her devotion hadn't wavered one bit to realize the fact of Morgana's magic – or even her ill-conceived treachery. She'd reprimanded with disappointment, and then offered her own aid and support to fix the mistakes Morgana had made.

And Acollyn. A hero she didn't even know she had, all these years waiting for her, knowing her better than she knew herself, expecting better of her than she expected of herself. Not that he'd come to rescue her, but that he'd come along as she went to rescue someone else. What if something had happened to him this whole year while he was searching for her? and she was searching for the things in her sister that just weren't there, but she'd had in others, all along.

Her choice had never been more blatant. Morgause and Arthur, barely a pace apart, clearly preparing to finally decide their conflict with a life or death resolution.

She knew which one would win.

Merlin was on his feet, but swaying like a sapling in a storm, in spite of the support of the knight she didn't recognize. And if Morgause used magic – of course she would – he was the only one who had a hope of defending against and defeating her.

For more than a year, Morgana had wanted nothing more than for her sister to win. Uther would have no control over her or her future or her magic, and she would be free. If Camelot couldn't be home in the freeing of magic, if Arthur resented his forced acceptance of the changes to his father's law when the throne was his, she could return to Trevena, which had been her ultimate goal anyway, ever since the day they'd taken her away.

But now… Her sister had destroyed Uther, and she was complicit in that. He had no control over his own mind – which made things hard for Arthur, who was a good man and would be a good king, and might free magic based on Merlin's interference. Her own actions, she recognized, conversely served to push Arthur _away from_ an acceptance of magic. And if he _died_ – she'd never forgive her sister, or herself. Gwen would never forgive her, or Leon or maybe Acollyn if they knew the truth.

Merlin would be… unpredictable.

Thoughts and impressions and instincts and impulses raced through her in the moment it took Morgause and Arthur to raise their weapons – and Morgause her open hand.

Morgana flung Acollyn's hands away from her, slogging forward so determinedly she almost tumbled over her boots' tendency to stick in the mud.

She was between them before she knew it. And looked Arthur right in the eye, braced for whatever reaction Morgause's revelation of her magic and involvement in the conspiracy against his father might have caused.

There was only surprise at her abrupt action. No suspicion or animosity in that clear-sky blue. Somehow, no blood on chainmail unbroken down his left side, and some of the tension that knotted her up inside relaxed.

"Stop," she pleaded with him.

And he listened. Exactly as she told Morgause he would. And she had no fear, turning her back to him to face her sister.

"What are you doing?" Morgause demanded frostily. "I thought you swore you were loyal to me."

"I am," Morgana said determinedly, wishing her sister would listen, too. For once. Taking another step of faith in those of her friends listening, she spoke deliberately. "Sister, I love you no matter what. Nothing will ever change who we are to one another – but that doesn't mean I have to blindly trust your interpretation of right and wrong, or follow every change to your plans that you make without considering any of my counsel."

"And you're protecting a Pendragon," her sister said, voice and eyes full of contempt so sharp it cut Morgana – and she had little hope that she would keep what she'd discovered she'd had all along with those around her, after this.

"I'm protecting the rightful king," she contradicted.

"Hoping he'll reward you with your life," Morgause said incredulously. "If he doesn't burn you for magic, he'll behead you as a traitor. Come on, Morgana, think. What we could be together – what we could do together."

How could she have ever thought that was what she wanted? To seduce kings or princes by offering her body and irretrievable virtue – and be repudiated overnight the moment she disappointed him in any way. Rather than choose someone who might make her feel loved in every way, all her days, in spite of her faults, who might devote himself to her protection and her aims because they were as noble as he was.

She didn't want the magic to raise the dead and drive powerful men mad – and then deny responsibility by clinging to a skewed ideal that couldn't change though the world changed around it. If she pursued magic she wanted it like Merlin had it – to protect her friends and break chains and free magic to help people, rather than killing or enslaving it.

"You are a murderer," she said, shaking her head over a bit of detachment from the horror of the statement. "And Nimueh was one of us." Morgause scoffed and shifted her weight like she wanted to stalk away, but wasn't ready to retreat just yet. "She wasn't fighting you, she wasn't threatening your life, she was trying to heal someone," Morgana went on.

"My enemy," Morgause spat, pointing at Arthur with the forefinger of the hand that held her sword-hilt.

"Maybe," Morgana agreed, beginning to lose patience. "But there are other ways of dealing with an enemy than seeking his death and refusing to be satisfied any other way. Aren't there, Merlin?"

She didn't look away from her sister, though Morgause flicked a glance over her shoulder in Merlin's direction, and sneered.

"Get out of my way," Morgause said to her, the bitter energy of resentment crackling around her. "Or, so help me, you make yourself my enemy, too."

 _Hells_ , Morgana swore internally. If her sister started swinging, she and Arthur could both be dead in seconds. If she started _casting_ , could Merlin actually stop her after what he'd been through?

She turned suddenly back to Arthur, reaching out to grab his wrist. " _Ic the_ _aweardian_."

If he died, the whole kingdom would suffer. If she did… well, not quite so much.

Another sort of shock widened his eyes, because of course he saw the gold of magic in hers – but he didn't pull away, and he didn't glare. And she turned back to Morgause oddly glad to have him so close at her back.

"You can't touch him," she said to her sister, trying to keep her voice steady. Trepidation and despair warred in her heart, to be defying and rejecting the only member of her blood family she had left. "You can't kill him." She hoped she was right about that, there was so much about magic she didn't know.

"Unless I kill the one who cast the shield-spell first," Morgause countered, eyes flashing.

The conflicting emotions in her heart sank to a sick misery in the pit of her stomach. "Would you do that?" she said, not even caring how her voice sounded or her face looked. Because honestly… she wasn't sure.

"Would you be traitor to your family, your people, siding with the likes of him," her sister spat. "Come, remove the enchantment and get out of my way – nothing can stop us, and then-"

"No," Morgana said.

Her throat ached, to join the other physical symptoms of emotional distress. They'd achieved every goal worth achieving, and if Morgause persisted in some sort of revenge, killing to prove a point or… remove an enemy she refused to negotiate with… then she was using the very same tactics that Uther had, and that Morgana had despised.

"Your Knights are dead, your king and his army estranged. You are outnumbered and you cannot win here. Leave, now. Leave Camelot, and don't come back unless…" she faltered, but only briefly. "Unless you can accept Arthur's rule peacefully, and come only as my sister and not as a sorceress. Unless you can confess your crimes and repent of them and seek the king's mercy."

"My only sisters were killed by Uther Pendragon on a forgotten Isle," Morgause declared wrathfully.

Morgana took a breath that seemed unable to fill the emptiness expanding in her chest. Morgause looked at each face of the rest surrounding them – arrayed against her, and not interrupting their confrontation.

"Very well," she said, eyes sparking fire. "Today is yours, Morgana. But this is not goodbye."

She backed away from them, clearly wary that someone would attack her, were she to turn her back. When she reached the statues of the Kings she paused as if startled, to glance up at one first then the other – then she whirled and stalked swiftly down the valley, out of sight.

Morgana turned instinctively, initial relief chilling to realize, it wasn't over. She felt the weight of the others' gaze like Morgause must have felt it, evaluating the worth of her words and motives prior to some form of judgment. Some of them had known some of her secrets, but no one had known them all – and now they did. Would it change what they thought of her and felt for her? Some of their opinions mattered more than others – Acollyn, Gwen…

She met no one's eyes but Arthur's. And was struck by the similarity of his expression to her memory of the day when she'd first beaten him in sword-craft. Confusion – what just happened? – moving toward realization, and a sort of dismay for the future. What would his father say or do? what would everyone else say or think? how would this change him in reaction?

It was _loss_ she saw there. More than just one sparring match on the training field. Loss of trust, loss of perceived identity, loss of…

 _Her_ , she realized. Maybe he'd looked exactly like this the morning after she left Camelot. Confused, beginning to realize what happened, what it meant for the future.

Because she'd made him feel again as if he'd lost her. And she hadn't even allowed him a say in the matter. As she hadn't been allowed a say when her father was sent to war…

"I'm sorry," she blurted. And found herself stepping closer to put her arms around him – chainmail, and maybe he was wounded, she didn't know, so _gently_. But, "I'm so sorry, Arthur. For all of it."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur couldn't help thinking that they'd been right, a year ago – that Morgana had been lost to them.

They hadn't found her, either. She'd been returned to them as an enemy spy, just like Morgause said. All those doubts about Morgana's story, all the questions left unanswered because he didn't want to push if she was traumatized.

She didn't look or act traumatized. She'd been taken very good care of. By her sister, Morgause – and how long had they known of that relationship? Ever since the older blonde had come fitted as a lone knight into Camelot to challenge him? That plan hadn't worked – _lure you out of Camelot, tell you what your father had done to your mother…_

This one worked well enough. Every breath tore at his side and he had a regency waiting for him when – and if – he returned to Camelot, because his father's magically-induced illness might have permanently damaged his mind.

And for what? For magic, that turned friend against friend – _I was her friend, I was Uther's friend, I was_ welcomed _in Camelot_ – then and now.

But no. He and Merlin had crossed those lines in the other direction, foe becoming friend. It wasn't magic that warped emotions and affected choices, then, it was… fear.

Fear that he saw on Morgana's face as she turned from watching Morgause disappear, and focused on him, so uncharacteristically timid. And when she touched him, he couldn't help flinching, because… it hurt.

"I'm sorry," she said, the stark honesty in her voice catching at him with jagged edges. "I'm so sorry, Arthur. For all of it."

He could believe her. He could even glimpse why she'd think she couldn't tell any of them where she was going a year ago, and then where she'd been and who with and why. But-

"You cursed my father," he said down at the top of her head. Mud-splattered; he could feel his own dripping down the sides of his jaw, over his ears and down the back of his neck. She pulled back, eyes dark and tragic in the white of her face. "The enchantment that drove him mad."

"Yes," she said. Terrified, but holding his eyes. And not repeating her apology.

"You hate - him that much?" he asked huskily. Almost he said _us_ , but found that unbearable. Her arms still circled his ribs, but he hadn't so much as lifted his in response.

"He would have killed me if he knew I had magic," she said. "And I didn't choose to learn it, it just came to me – it was in my family, it was in my blood-"

"He wouldn't have killed you," Arthur said. His throat hurt and his heart keened with irreparable regret. "He _couldn't_ have. He adored you, he gave you everything you ever wanted-"

"Not everything," Morgana contradicted in a low voice, taking her arms back. "Not freedom. But I… Arthur, the truth is that I wanted him to relive his guilt for what he'd done to innocent people because he hated magic. I thought that a fair punishment. I didn't know – I don't think Morgause cared – Merlin said, that enchantment was… wasn't what I thought it was. But it was too late by then. I burned the root, but…"

But it was too late.

And of course she knew about Morgause and Cenred and the Knights. She'd informed on his weakness to his enemies…

Arthur breathed, and closed his eyes. What a horrible, careless mistake. And Merlin had known that she was the sorceress who'd placed the cursed object, and never told Arthur…

Merlin who'd crossed the border at his king's command to try to raid without violence and blood. Another horrible, careless mistake that had cost lives – that gave the young prince nightmares. What he'd helped set in motion and couldn't stop until it was too late.

What Arthur had forgiven him for because of the long-buried seed of regret in his own heart. A raid long ago where the mistakes had been his own, horrible and careless and fatal, making incorrect assumptions about obedience due a king and the expectation of his own level of control over the situation.

And his father had congratulated and praised him, when he returned to Camelot. And so would the king of Caerleon have done if Merlin had gone home triumphant rather than surrender to prevent further death. And so would Morgause have done if Morgana had returned to her rather than…

Surrender to him to prevent his death.

Maybe that made both Merlin and Morgana better people than he was.

He opened his eyes and felt drops of moisture slide over the drying spattered mud on his face. Morgana's eyes glistened with tears also – fear and hope mingled. And even though it hurt, he lifted his arms and wrapped them around Morgana's shoulders.

"I forgive you," he said.

 **A/N: So this is the end of the action-action. I anticipate 2 more chapters of aftermath and clean-up and concluding remarks and so on, and an epilogue several months into the future, taking place at a wedding (how's that for spoilers? you won't know** _ **whose**_ **for a month!). This one is shorter, and therefore you get it sooner, but I think I'll only be able to manage one more before I put it on hold for November. Sorry I wasn't able to mark it complete, but at least we're past the cliffies…**


	27. Silent is the Rest

**Chapter 27: Silent is the Rest**

Gwaine was certain that this was the best story he'd ever tell over a round of drinks at any tavern in the five kingdoms. Unembellished. Swear it's true. Would anyone ever believe him?

Maybe if he took the quiet, dark-skinned blacksmith along for comradeship and corroboration.

Everyone was on their feet, at least, except for the sorceress Nimueh – but no one seemed upset about it except the girl Morgana, and her loyalties seemed… mercurial, to him, so he decided not to worry too much over the dead sorceress.

The live one, however… Gwaine kept the narrow passage of the valley in his vision as Arthur and Morgana conversed oh-so-earnestly. Just in case the blonde witch decided to come back. She didn't, and before Gwaine knew right from left – it's a good idea for a mercenary to be able to use both hands as interchangeably as possible – the prince and the girl-with-magic were hugging and forgiving each other everything.

Gwaine sighed and rolled his eyes to the valley. In his line of work, you forgot insults or you avenged them with violence. He was good at both – but forgiveness? He supposed that was a prince's prerogative.

And then it was a whole round of, _Are you all right?_ Three or four asking Prince Arthur at once, and each other at the same time.

Ribs, huh? Chainmail will save your life at the price of a month's worth of bone knitting.

"I can bandage them," said the girl who looked like the blacksmith, touching the prince's flank worriedly. Possessively?

"Not here," Arthur answered briefly, and if anything was amiss in her behavior, he didn't take notice.

Gwaine had half a second to feel offended on behalf of his prince; turning, he caught the blacksmith's eye and conveyed the need to watch the witch's retreat with a jerk of his head. The blacksmith understood, nodded, and shifted for a better angle in the next half a second. And before Gwaine could even open his mouth on the question, Arthur had turned just his head toward them, Gwaine behind Merlin to catch him in case of collapse.

"Merlin – are you all right?"

"I am…" Merlin paused, the answer incomplete, and worry sparked heat in Gwaine's chest til he heard the satisfied grin in the young prince's voice, "restored."

"There's blood on your neck," Arthur observed with the awkwardness of skepticism, not moving; it probably hurt him to move, and Gwaine was closer anyway.

He took a step and reached forward to brush the prince's tangled curls from his neck.

"It feels like just a scratch," Merlin volunteered, bending his head obligingly.

"It is just a scratch," Gwaine reported, following the red line around the sides of Merlin's neck – free of the enchanted necklace that blocked his magic and he thought he could guess how. That fantastic explosion of light.

Well, more like a cut, but it wasn't deep and wouldn't need stitching, though it might leave a fine scar. Of course it would have to be cleaned, or infection was a possibility – but they all needed a good scrub-down. They looked like they'd been rolling in the mud, save for Elyan and Leon.

Stepping out from behind Merlin, he added, "I'm feeling a bit saddle-sore, if anyone cares to know. It's been a while since I rode a _horse_ all night…"

Merlin snorted. The dark-skinned girl who'd embraced Arthur on the ground hid her mouth behind her hand, though her eyes danced; Leon shook his head and Arthur gave him a strange look, smiling with his lips and frowning with his eyebrows.

The girl Morgana said to him, "Who is that?"

"It's Merlin's knight," Arthur said.

Gwaine opened his mouth instinctively to protest, but the words shoved against each other in his throat, and wouldn't come out. And no one else protested. And Merlin wore a pleased little smile along with his exhaustion, and said nothing.

And Gwaine might need to sit down.

"Acollyn," Arthur said then, to the knight who'd arrived unexpectedly to help Gwaine with the last of the knights. "You have highly fortuitous timing." He held out his hand and the knight grasped it, gently rather than heartily. "This is Prince Merlin of Caerleon, and Gwaine – I guess you know everyone else. Merlin, Sir Acollyn of Trevena."

"Oh, Trevena!" Merlin said in a tone of discovery, pointing at the man, his hand filthy and wavering. Acollyn crossed to meet them, and Merlin rearranged his fingers to grip a greeting. "I'm – interested to meet you, actually. And I guess the magic doesn't bother you?"

Gwaine studied the man, who seemed capable and good-humored, and hadn't so much as blinked to have Morgana cast a spell on Arthur. So he'd known – and the blacksmith and the other girl, though Sir Leon at least had also watched Arthur closely for his reaction without verbally expressing his own shock.

"I have nothing against magic personally," Acollyn said mildly, with a smile – and without glancing to his own prince for permission to speak freely, what might have been considered treason by the king. "My father thought it wise to give me a basic education in the theory."

Arthur made a noise of impatient chagrin, his eyes on Morgana.

She said, "I'm sorry, too."

Gwaine was tensing and turning toward the surrounding forest before he consciously recognized the sound of twig-crack and leaf-rustle, but he caught the suggestion of the other men doing the same, ready for-

 _Hells, is this day not_ over _yet?_

But it was flashes of Camelot scarlet that appeared through the near gloom of the overcast afternoon in the ancient forest, and he relaxed as the others did. Pairs and trios, the sentries that Arthur had posted around them to guard against interruption while Merlin opened portals.

In his opinion, they should all be relieved of duty and maybe have their pay reduced, or recreation time canceled, or-

Then he realized, some were limping, one cradling an arm, and two others carried comrades over their shoulders.

Arthur spun in a circle to see them all, maybe counting – Gwaine's impression was, this was everyone who hadn't been left at the other camp, though he hadn't sought introductions or remembered any names. "What happened?"  
"I don't know-"

"There was a witch, she-"

"…Opening my eyes like I'd been asleep-"

"Serkets," said one of the knights carrying the body of his fellow, grimly and shortly. Others went to him, helping him ease his burden to the ground.

Arthur began issuing orders, standing still and not participating personally. Morgana stayed with him, and Leon leaned against a tree, and Acollyn, Elyan, and the other girl assisted in assessing their collective status.

Gwaine pressed Merlin down to sitting, propping him against the trunk of a tree as well, and kept one eye on his prince and the other on the valley – not quite as confident as the others that the blonde witch was gone for good.

And Nimeuh's body was covered by a cairn of stones – _thought sorcerers weren't allowed a marked grave? No, we're not leaving her body to the animals_ \- and two of the sentry-knights were dead. He caught enough of another conversation to know that Leon had found the few who had remained with the night-camp dead when he'd disappeared to find help.

"Let's make our way back to camp," Arthur decided, raising his voice to address all of them. "We'll see to the wounded and make preparations to bring our fallen comrades back to the citadel."

"And wash, and eat, and sleep," Gwaine added under his breath.

"And in the morning, we'll head home," Arthur finished, looking at Merlin as he said it.

Merlin inhaled, realizing as Gwaine did, home was different for him and Arthur recognized that – and intended to keep his promise to release him. Which Gwaine was proud of and glad for… for Merlin's sake and Arthur's honor.

Except, Gwaine himself didn't have a home, here or in Caerleon. Which didn't matter, did it? It had never mattered before, it shouldn't matter now.

But did it?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen wasn't sure whether it had been her idea or Gaius', that she serve the old physician for however long it took them to find her lady mistress. Well, whoever had first suggested it deserved a toast; Gwen was overwhelmingly, exhaustedly grateful for her training, by the time dusk fell in the camp.

She was also very glad that, although there were numerous casualties to mourn, the collection of injuries among the knights remaining had not been life-threatening or even extremely serious. Stitches, splints, ointment, bandages. And lots and lots of hot water, which it fell to Morgana – aided by Acollyn – in a strange distortion of duties, to fetch from the stream and carry to the camp. The knights who were able tended preparations of care for the living, tending preparations of transport for the dead.

They looked a muddied, bedraggled bunch - dried and brushed down, or rinsed and wrung. Gwen's sleeves had been soaked so many times as she washed her hands of blood-smear, scrubbed cloths she was using to clean wounds. And the trousers beneath her half-skirt were caked and flaking with dried mud down the shins.

"How are you doing?" Arthur said before she could say the same words to him. He sat very still and straight on a folding camp-chair near the larger of the two fires, waiting til his men had been medically tended, upon his own order – obeyed by her under private protest.

"Tired," she admitted, brushing an annoyingly loose lock of hair away from her temple with the back of her wrist. She folded herself down to kneeling near his feet at his left side, where the sword had struck but not pierced his armor. "And hungry."

"How's Merlin?" he asked, before she could give any orders of her own to begin this examination.

"Sleeping now," she told him. "Gwaine took him to the stream to clean up, but they're back now, in one of the tents. Gwaine wouldn't let me in, actually, and he wouldn't have done that if Merlin had needed tending."

"What about his leg?" Arthur said, with a keen glance.

"Just bruised, they said. He was limping, but it was bearing his weight," she told him, unsurprised that he'd noticed that detail about the other prince. One of the things she loved about her prince – his concern for those under his care. Even former enemies.

"Is Morgana's stew going to be edible?" he remarked, and she twisted to follow his gaze. His tone lacked humor as he watched their friend stir the contents of the pot, somewhat frazzled herself after the shock-upon-shock of the day, and the wearying aftermath.

"Acollyn's helping her with that," Gwen commented. He grunted, not as though he hadn't noticed the way the two of them moved and acted around each other, but as though he wasn't ready to talk about that complication. She added, "Do you need help taking your armor and your shirt off? It'll be easier for me and more comfortable for you than if you just try to hold it up out of the way."

Trying to keep from showing the blush she felt heat her skin. Because it was always _different_ , tending his injuries, than any of the other men. Always she was conscious of the brush of his skin against hers and the tension of relevant muscles, his scent that reminded her of proximity and latent strength and recent combat and danger overcome.

Arthur looked down at her, his jaw set in inclination to stubbornness. She knew he didn't want the others to watch, to see, to react. But even if they could retire somewhere more private without prompting gossip, everyone needed this reassurance of their prince's wellbeing – especially after the enchanted sword had struck him what looked to her – and surely she wasn't the only one – like a mortal blow.

She added, putting a little metal into her tone, "We're _not_ waiting til we get back to Gaius tomorrow. Leon asked me how you were, and Merlin asked, too. The others respect your privacy, but everyone is concerned."

Arthur sighed, then stood to unbuckle his sword-belt, letting it fall to one side. Then he leaned over – slowly, stiffly – and she helped him peel the chainmail up and over his head. It was going to be quite the task for Elyan to clean the mud out of each and every link, and oil it against rust, too – at least her brother had escaped the day's adventure unscathed save for scrapes and bruises and a lump on the back of his hard head from being tossed across the clearing.

She was quite sure she heard a half-stifled groan, but no one else was close enough to have caught that expression of pain; she winced in sympathy, and he remained bent over to shuck his shirt off with a hand on the back of his collar. She moved in front of him to help with the fabric, tugging it away from his skin – soaked and muddied but dry now, filthy-stained and wrinkled. He grunted and bit back another moan, and it was almost too dim for her to make out the shadow of bruising spread along his left side.

"Oh, Arthur!" she exclaimed softly, following him as he sank down to sitting on the camp chair again. She knelt, reaching to touch him, pressing as firmly as necessary but hating to cause him more pain. "It missed your ribs, but – have you relieved your bladder since then, and did you notice if there was blood-"

"Hells, Guinevere," he snapped, sounding annoyed and embarrassed, more than hurt – and then, abruptly laughed. Shallow and breathless, but still with wry humor.

"Sorry," she said, focusing on the bruising and feeling the firelight heat her face, from… several paces away. "It's just… Gaius will probably have to examine you tomorrow when we get home and ask you more personal questions than that."

He stretched away from her touch, holding his arm bent out of her way. "It's fine. Bodily functions unaffected as far as I can tell. Just… really sensitive."

She hummed, turning aside for the paste she'd made – using all of the ingredients that she'd packed – for bruising. "Hold still," she instructed, knowing that the chill and tickle of her smearing the ointment onto his side would make him want to move – which would hurt him and hinder her.

"Speaking of Morgana," he said between his teeth – and how much of the question and the timing of it was to distract himself, she couldn't know and wouldn't guess. "That day in the cells, when you said she'd talked to you, she told you. About her magic."

Gwen set the paste aside and began to wrap her last clean bandage roll about his middle. "Yes… only, not the part about your father. Only that she'd left us because of her magic, and couldn't tell us."

He grunted, watching somewhere over her shoulder, as she placed and tugged the bandage carefully, very aware of bare skin and subtle muscle and fine chest hair.

To distract herself, she added, "What are you going to do about her?"

She was aware that he angled his head to look down at her, considering and understanding, "Because we can't just go on pretending this never happened. Well… I'm not going to charge her before the court, you know that no good will come of that."

Gwen hummed agreement, tying the ends of the bandage and reaching for the prince's discarded shirt.

He heaved a slow gusty-pained sigh. "It might depend on whether my father recovers. Whether he ever demands answers. The council will expect a report on Merlin, why I let him go, but I can explain that without getting too specific about magic. Honestly I think they'll be glad to be rid of him, along with the Knights of Medhir, the goblin and the griffon."

"Have you noticed how devoted to her Acollyn seems?" Gwen suggested, pushing herself to her feet and feeling sore and tired all over – it had been one hell of a day.

"That must be taken into consideration as well," Arthur mused.

"Perhaps…" Gwen hesitated to offer her opinion, but he looked at her expectantly as his head came through the collar of his shirt, and she thought, the worst he could do was laugh. "Perhaps you ought to speak to Merlin about her. I have the feeling we may owe a good bit of her change of heart to him."

"He seems very – principled, for a sorcerer," Arthur said, glancing about the settled camp as he stretched gingerly into his sleeves and let the hem of his shirt fall to his hips.

"Well, he might have some ideas, since Morgana has magic, too," Gwen concluded.

Arthur's mouth quirked, and he looked down at the ground between them. "Thank you," he said softly. "For that. For this-" he touched his side, shirt over bandage- "for being Morgana's friend. Maybe we owe a good bit of her change of heart to you, too. And for… everything you do, Guinevere. For the kingdom, for Gaius, for… me."

She smiled at him, and lifted one side of her skirt in a good-humored but grateful curtsy, and meant both words of her answer, with all her heart.

"My lord."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur realized he'd managed to doze off – in spite of the ache in his side and general stiffness elsewhere that was the result of battle, and the discomfort of _ground_ instead of _bed_ in such condition – when he woke.

Initially startled at the sensation of space beyond the cozy snap and sparkle of a low-tended fire – camp rather than hearth. And stars bending from the black-blue sky through the new-leaf growth on craggy old branches overhead.

Without moving, he turned his head – propped up as he was against his saddle for minimal comfort – to view his camp. A third less of his men than he'd left Camelot with – not a new burden but never an easy one, either – with two who were not his men, and two women. One of whom had betrayed them. He understood it, and he knew she regretted it, knew she understood that she had made mistakes – trusting the wrong person, as he had done, and Merlin. But there was still…

He tensed reactively, his eyes drawn back from the sentry pacing at the far end of the camp, to the fire whose subtle glow and flicker he'd taken for granted at the familiar sound.

Because there was a cloud of tiny sparks gathered above it, wafting to and fro, forming and dispersing to coalesce again, in a way that was decidedly not natural. His eyes widened to detect a horse, mane and tail flickering with sparks, rear to paw at the air above the fire, before collapsing and flattening into an unmistakable draconic shape, wings and tail and claws.

That one stayed, undulating like it was coasting the air currents.

All he could see of Merlin from this angle, and without moving more than his head, were his boots and the lower half of one leg. But there was no sound or other indication of movement.

"Are you doing that in your sleep?" he said in a low voice, taking a chance.

Merlin had woken to wolf down the stew Morgana and Acollyn had prepared without so much as a _thank-you_ or even _could-use-salt_. Arthur's opinion; Gwen wouldn't back him up; Gwaine agreed but his opinion was discounted as a matter of course. Then Merlin had tucked his head back into the circle of his arms and ceased to move again. Something which seemed to unnerve Morgana more than anyone else.

At the sound of Arthur's voice, Merlin shifted, rolling toward him. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

Arthur pushed himself up from his saddle, leaning over on his elbow to favor his wounded side. Now he could see Merlin, face rosy with firelight, eyes lazily half-closed – and the gold that swirled there was no reflection.

"Would you care if you did?" he questioned, watching the visible effects of the magic. Absolutely useless magic, as far as he could tell; artistic, though he'd never say so aloud. He didn't know there was magic like that.

"I would say… I was trying to wake everyone, but I'll settle for just you." Merlin grinned, watching the dragon flap sparks. Then tipped his chin and lifted his brows, angling to see Arthur better. "Does it bother you?"

"It probably should," Arthur said ruefully.

How was it that in such a short and turbulent time, he'd come to trust his enemy's use of a forbidden and powerful and largely unfamiliar practice? He knew Merlin wouldn't hurt any one of them. He wouldn't endanger them carelessly, or even lose control and do so accidentally.

"I used to do this when I was a kid, and couldn't sleep," Merlin confided, after a moment. "I'd pretend that it spoke back to me, the dragon." Above the fire, the spark-creature twined its neck to look back at them, baring gleaming-hot teeth and exhaling smoke.

Arthur remembered what Gwaine had said of his impression of the younger prince as a child, and thought he knew why Merlin would have been wakeful at night. He'd done so himself, often enough, and he was probably closer to being what pleased Uther Pendragon, than Merlin was to what the king of Caerleon could be assumed to have wanted in an heir.

He said, "I used to look at the stars out my window, and talk to my mother."

Merlin shifted like he was making himself more comfortable against his own saddle. "I bet you're like her, more than you realize. She must have been a great queen."

He was warmly gratified to hear his friend say so, and agreed with the second statement, at least. And didn't tease him about the implication of Arthur's own greatness, intentional or not. And didn't say, _I don't know, because my father won't talk of her._ And after the enchantment, would he even be able to, ever again?

Instead he said, "You can't sleep? The way you were snoring earlier, I thought we'd all be dreaming of sawyers tonight."

Merlin gave a nearly soundless _Ha!_ of a laugh, nodding. "It's a feeling not unlike… winning your first tournament. Physically you might be shaking with exhaustion, but on the inside the triumph is like a lightning bolt of energy let loose. That's how my magic feels right now."

Arthur made a thoughtful noise to himself, familiar with the sensation and intrigued at the comparison. "Does everyone's magic feel like that to them at times?"

It would explain why so many people refused to renounce magic, and instead attacked those who would forbid it. Arthur was not entirely sure he was ready to loosen those strictures, but… perhaps Merlin could send him a copy of Caerleon's guidelines and safeguards. As a starting point. For consideration's sake.

"I…" Merlin blinked at him. "I don't know. What an odd question. I wonder if magic feels different to different people? I never asked my tutor that. Huh."

"Because…" Arthur hesitated, then took the plunge Gwen had advised. "I'm not sure what to do about Morgana. Personal forgiveness is not the same as judiciary pardon, and keeping her secret might be a fine conclusion for a crown prince to make, but a prince regent…"

"You don't want a trial," Merlin guessed. "Unnecessarily public, messy, lots of consequences for everyone…"

"Yes. But what she's done – I hesitate to say, because I understand the motivation, I pardon the offense completely."

"That's not a good precedent to set, even in private," Merlin agreed, frowning. "Well… if you wanted to banish her, she could come to Caerleon. We could send for Alator, because I'm sure she'll want to learn more. And she hasn't been taught anything like ethics in how she uses her power."

Arthur couldn't help it; it slipped out. "And you have?"

Merlin's brows drew together unhappily. "It wasn't the magic to blame for your border towns. If my king had gotten his way from the start, we'd have flattened Camelot years ago – but my druid tutor said absolutely not, and my queen agreed, and I shudder to think how miserable I'd be if I'd been forced to use it like that, for destruction and death or even intimidation. Morgana… needs to learn to listen to her conscience more than her emotions."

"I agree," Arthur said, surprised that the younger prince could assess Morgana so after only a fortnight. He'd known her for years – which maybe clouded his judgment? "Well, you're right about two things, anyway-"

"I am?" Merlin interrupted, exaggerating his surprise at Arthur's concession.

"Shut up." He couldn't stop the smile. "I mean, Morgana will not want to stop learning and practicing magic." Swordsmanship and rhetoric had been the same way – she devoured the information and tirelessly pursued excellence like life itself was a competition and she needed whatever personal resources she could acquire to help her win any way she could. "And, that she can't do that in Camelot. I can't ignore her breaking the law as it stands, no matter how I feel about changing it, and yet continue to punish transgressions in others."

Merlin made a sound of agreement. "Arthur…"

Arthur expected him to continue, and when he still hesitated, prompted, "What?"

"About… Stonedown? And Evorwick?" A single glance too quick for Arthur to read was tossed his way. "I feel like I want to offer something in the nature of reparations. Though it won't be official, my king would never agree to that. Maybe if you took me there, I could apologize, I could… Use magic to make their fields more fertile, or…"

Arthur shook his head slowly, considering the offer from several different angles, before rejecting it – and it wasn't about preventing the captured barbarian prince from easing his guilt. "I think that would make things worse, honestly, Merlin," he said. "For me to bring you there, for you to use magic under my supervision – that wouldn't calm or content them. They would fear it, and you, and suspect me. It's still illegal – you know Leon chose these knights that came with us carefully, to include those who wouldn't have compunctions about observing or allowing magic – even for an obviously useful goal, and with my favor."

"Oh," Merlin said, and the sound of that one syllable made Arthur want to apologize.

"Stonedown and Evorwick belong to Camelot," he said. "You can be sure we'll take care of them. And I know… how you feel."

Merlin nodded. "In Evorwick. They panicked… after I used magic to stop one of my men attacking. That was worse to them than if we were… just thieves or bandits. I was trying to keep it from coming to that. If they didn't fear magic so much… Not that I'm trying to pass on blame, I guess I'm just… wondering. If that will change, for them."

Arthur shifted to slide his weight off his elbow, and stretch his arm. "Not right away. You know it won't work like that. I can't simply command my people not to fear or mistrust something they spent twenty years being encouraged to hate and fear."

"But you'll be fair," Merlin said, and it wasn't a question.

"If my father-" Arthur swallowed, and started again. "When my father recovers…" Another quick glance, and that one he could read. "You don't think he will?"

"A person ought to recover from an enchantment immediately when it's broken," Merlin said. "I mean. If you've been enchanted to – jump from one end of the kingdom to the other, or dance til your shoes wear off, or something, you'd immediately feel the effect of what you'd been enchanted to do, but you wouldn't keep doing it. There would be physical exhaustion, only. But… the mandrake is a torture enchantment. And men do go mad under torture. And that won't lift when the enchantment is broken, though the torture itself ends. For your sake, Arthur, I'm sorry, but-"

"If my father was going to recover his wits, he would already have done so," Arthur finished, feeling the weight of grief and regret and responsibility press down on him.

"He might still improve," Merlin offered. "Gaius is very skilled."

Arthur nodded, but couldn't bring himself to acknowledge hope. "Well," he said, and had to clear his throat. "Don't play with the fire too long. Tomorrow is back to Camelot, and a busy day it will be."

The casualties. The king. Morgana.

"The day after," he added, "you'll be a free man, headed home."

Merlin hummed thoughtfully. "I can't help but feel that I got off pretty lightly, so… I want to say, whenever you need any help that I might be uniquely suited to give – you have but to ask."

Arthur took a breath to steady himself against emotion that threatened to overwhelm. He was neither alone nor helpless, facing the commencement of his reign in fact if not in name. But deliberately he turned his tone toward sarcastic. "How about healing this bruise on my side? Or conjuring a featherbed? I can _not_ get comfortable…"

Merlin laughed softly. "Sorry, healing magic isn't really a strength for me. Between my king and my tutor-"

"But he's a druid?" Arthur objected. Thinking it might be worth his while to try to make contact with the druids that still lingered around certain areas of Camelot occasionally. At least to open communications.

"His was a militant sect."

"Why am I not surprised?" Arthur said dryly.

"Want a sleeping spell? I imagine it wouldn't be any worse than something Gaius might brew."

Arthur huffed. "I won't ask that of you." He paused, and raised an eyebrow meaningfully, relaxing back on his saddle where he could only see Merlin's boots again. "But if you were just to do it…"

Another soft chuckle.

And the wave of weariness that rolled over him carried Merlin's whisper on its crest, and whether it was magic or not, Arthur relaxed to deep and restful slumber.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. ….*…..

Morgana rubbed her fingers together as she swept down the corridor, chin held high. It was the only sign of nerves that she'd allow to show.

They'd returned to Camelot without incident. Though she was sure the men had been busy – except for Merlin, who was under a sort-of arrest, for show, locked in a guest suite when they all knew he could unlock it and walk out if he really felt like it; if she'd been locked in a room with Gwaine she knew she would have – she and Gwen had been allowed to refresh themselves in her chambers for several hours in the afternoon, before a messenger had knocked on the door to announce the summons.

Dinner in the Prince Regent's quarters.

She'd been in Arthur's room before but never for a meal, informal or otherwise. And she knew that he would have more to say to her, not _instead of_ I-forgive-you, but beyond it. They simply couldn't go back to the way things used to be – but neither had he turned on her as Morgause had predicted and convinced her.

Rounding the last corner, she nearly ran into Acollyn – her heart jumped and gasped and he steadied her with warm hands on her upper arms. But he had no smile for her, just a hurried, troubled look in his light-brown eyes.

"What's the matter?" she said immediately, absorbing the fact of others in the corridor behind him without identifying them.

"I didn't realize." He shook his head. "The king is – so diminished. If our enemies knew, they might dare test our borders, or more. Arthur has his work laid out for him, avoiding war this year."

Avoiding war _again_. She realized that she had not once thought what any measure of success for their plan might have meant for the other kingdoms around them. She'd assumed, with free magic, that they could simply _declare_ peace.

But there was no time for her to speak to Acollyn at all. He was part of an escort for Uther, bringing the king back to his own quarters, so it seemed, from Arthur's room, and Uther – even moving slowly and inattentively – was just behind him.

"Morgana!" he exclaimed, beaming and reaching for her. "You're back!"

She froze with extreme reluctance, but he didn't seem to notice, enfolding her in his arms and kissing her temple, exactly as he had when she'd first seen him upon her return. As if he'd forgotten all the time between that moment and now – and she couldn't decide if she wished it could be so. Would she want all her transgressions erased and Uther back in power?

Yes, actually. To make other decisions, secure in the knowledge of trust in her friends and their support. But then – it might be better for her, but not necessarily for other magic-users within Camelot, to be caught in the months and years to come...

Impossible and unnecessary question to answer. And she quelled the urge to turn her mouth to his ear and whisper the truth, _I have magic. And Arthur neither hates nor fears it…_ without much difficulty.

He pulled away from her, a single happy tear again streaking through smile-wrinkles on his cheek. "You were so brave, through your suffering. We rejoice to have you restored to us."

She choked out a, "Yes, my lord. And thank you."

Which seemed to satisfy him. He pulled away from her to follow Acollyn, with Sir Ectyr trailing him watchfully and respectfully, and she watched them out of sight.

Then turned.

She remembered that last dinner with her sister before setting the plan in motion. Thinking how she was leaving her family to enter enemy territory, thinking how she'd miss her sister and the times they spent together – times she looked back on with Merlin's opinion and her own realizations making her skeptical.

Arthur would never pressure her into a task she wasn't ready for, or would put her in danger, no matter what the reward promised. Maybe that wasn't fair, since he was a man and a knight, and Morgause a sorceress. She remembered the carnage of the bandit camp with a shudder – a situation that her sister had placed her into, and which Arthur had rescued her from. And the fiasco with the goblin, which Merlin had resolved. And the companionship that she would miss the most about last year, Morgause had been glad was over.

His door was open; she didn't touch it but moved to the threshold. He slumped in the chair at the head of the table, favoring his injured side, she thought, elbow on the arm of the chair and his head propped on splayed fingers slowly rubbing his brow. Eyes fixed into the distance with the same troubled look that bothered her on Acollyn.

It struck her again, how much he'd changed this last year. He looked older; he acted older. Most of the arrogance that had so riled her during their adolescence was tempered by hard experience, and she found she was proud of him, for the way he had handled the prince of Caerleon and his magic. His father could not have done it.

She neither spoke nor moved, but his eyes shifted and found her in the doorway; she stepped forward.

"So I'm regent," he said huskily. "The council pushed for it. I thought… I expected… maybe I _hoped_ … but he didn't even care. He didn't act surprised, at all."

She rounded the table and he watched her drop onto the edge of the seat at his right hand, leaning forward. "Arthur. I'm so sorry."

"I know," he said, stroking fingertips over his forehead once more, before pushing himself upright and signaling to someone else who'd entered the doorway behind her.

She sat back to watch a pair of servants enter with covered trays, setting one in front of each of them, complete with goblet of wine. Fish smothered in spicy-scented sauce, root vegetables, fresh bread and new butter, honeyed tarts. She wasn't really hungry, but didn't know how to say, _What are we going to do now… what are we going to do_ …

"I'm glad you didn't stand with her," Arthur said, handling his fork like he wasn't very hungry, either. She wondered if Gaius had been to see him – surely, that would have been a priority – and if bruising and soreness were the extent of it. "Your sister, I mean."

"She said, there was no such thing as dark magic, only people too scared or weak to use their power," Morgana said slowly. "I never heard it explained the way Merlin talked of it – like a responsibility. I guess I believed… what we'd always been taught about magic."

His eyes were intent on her face, and he _listened_. When had he become such a good listener? It reminded her of Gwen, a little.

"Us, and them," she finished. "And suddenly I was on the other side, and…"

"You behaved accordingly." He lifted his goblet and took several mouthfuls. "But you protected me, not to gain mercy because Morgause could not have won, yesterday, but because it was the right thing to do."

"Was it too little too late?" Morgana asked, trying to swallow her bite of bread. It felt stuck in her throat in spite of the creamy butter.

He didn't answer the question. "You know… I can't give you freedom either, Morgana. Even though I'll have the final say in the trial of any caught sorcerer, as prince regent I can't make _changes_. Not to the law. To the perception of the people, I hope, one day, but it might be slow progress and a long time in coming. And meanwhile, here you are."

She laid her silverware down before numb fingers could drop the utensils, and lowered her hands to her lap.

"Right in the citadel," he went on softly. "And… I don't really expect you to stop doing what you can do. I know you – you'll want to try more."

She couldn't disagree. But the tone of his voice and the look on his face held no condemnation.

"I can't ask you or tell you to forswear it, because you won't. I don't want to be lied to or hidden from, I don't want to worry what danger you or others might be in simply because none of us know or understand these guidelines and safeguards Merlin suggested. Not to mention, you are guilty of treason, though you recognized your error and sought to correct it."

"Will you exile me, then?" Morgana asked. Her mouth was dry, and there was white around the edges of her vision, so long had she stared at him.

"No," he said after a long pause, twisting his wine goblet on the tabletop by the base of its stem. "No. I don't believe it's anyone else's business, what you've done. Gwen knows, and Gaius knows. As far as anyone else is concerned, you're being sent back to Trevena to continue recovering from your ordeal."

"Trevena?" she gasped, the word catching sharply in her throat and sparking tears to her eyes.

"You will remain in Trevena as long as my father lives," Arthur said, sternly enough – but he probably knew just how much of a punishment this _wasn't_ ; she couldn't control the hope that surged up wildly in her chest. "Unless you are summoned, you are not to set foot in Camelot. You may not take your maid with you-"

Gwen wouldn't want to go, anyway, not and leave work she was skilled and useful at and enjoyed, as Gaius' assistant. Not and leave Arthur.

"You may not claim control of your property back from the crown, as your wardship status states, til you marry with our approval or petition for and receive a dispensation, which will not be forthcoming while my father lives. Trevena's steward retains all authority."

Oh, well. It wasn't meant to be a reward, was it? And she couldn't now assert that she was capable of directing Trevena's affairs any better than Acollyn's father, anyway. She had a lot to learn.

"In addition," Arthur said warningly, "we will be assigning you into the custody of someone who is uniquely equipped to… supervise you."

Morgana straightened indignantly. "What does that-"

"Merlin said he would write to his tutor in Helva. So, whether he comes or whether he recommends someone else…"

Arthur's quiet statement choked her rising irritation with chagrin. She really would have to learn to trust Arthur. He was far smarter than she ever would have believed, given their childhood lessons together in the schoolroom.

"So I can learn," she said hesitantly. "In Trevena?"

He took another long swallow of wine. "You can learn. What not to do, if nothing else."

Maybe he couldn't give her freedom, as she said she'd wanted from his father, but what he'd given her might be infinitely more precious. He'd given Morgana her home back. And her self.

"Come on, eat dinner," he said, suddenly self-conscious under her gaze. "It's getting cold."


	28. Signs of Change

**A/N: Chapter 27 has been replaced with a full-length version. If you haven't read that yet, I recommend doing so before you read this chapter…**

 **Chapter 28: Signs of Change**

Gaius did not move so swift or spry anymore, but he had no worry of waking either of his guests as he shuffled up the stairs to his storage room and pushed the door open, creaking. Dawn was yet an hour away, and as he raised the candle in his hand, he could fancy himself twenty-five years in the past. Not yet so bent or stiff.

One lean form sprawled face-down on the cot, heels fallen boyishly to the sides, his face and one arm hanging over the edge, as though sleep had caught him in the middle of a continued conversation. The older and more muscular of the two lay on his back in the bedroll on the floor, ankles crossed and one arm tucked behind his head, tipped toward the bed above him. In the dim light of the candle, they might have been Geart and Balinor.

Gaius cleared his throat, and Gwaine's eyes flew open – the only sign he was awake and alert, but it was enough. Merlin mumbled and turned his head to the other side, hiding his face in the comfort of the flat pillow.

"It's an hour til dawn," Gaius told Gwaine, who glanced toward the room's small window as he sat up. "I've breakfast hot on the table, if you don't mind porridge."

"With honey?" Gwaine suggested, grinning the same grin that had won female hearts when he had four tiny teeth in his head.

The memory tugged at a smile on Gaius' face, and he turned away to hide it. "Not unless you hurry."

As he set his foot on the first step down he heard the shuffle of Gwaine turning to shake Merlin's arm and urge, "Hurry, Merlin, there's honey!"

Merlin's response was muffled, but it wasn't five minutes til both young men were trooping down the stairs to the main chamber, shirt-laces loose, packs slung over their shoulders, dark heads tousled. Merlin still rubbed sleep from one eye – so that he stumbled over the three-legged stool and Gwaine reached to steer him to the table with a handful of his sleeve.

Gaius had to mutter to himself and busy his hands with grinding starflower seeds for their oil, so he didn't blurt out the truth about Merlin's father. That wasn't his place – the secret would keep til the young prince was home again in Caerleon, and the royal family could decide together how they would proceed.

Still he heard fragments of their conversation, over the rough rubbing of stone on seed.

"You didn't," Gwaine exclaimed in admiring disbelief. Merlin, his mouth full, lifted empty palms as if to deny exaggeration.

And a moment later, the younger man was declaring with laughter in his voice, "Now _that_ I would have liked to see."

Gaius himself was highly content to see that the young sorcerer was none the worse for wear, returning to Camelot after extraordinary – by several reports – magic. Not the least of which was breaking the _Endel-Easnes_ so thoroughly not even pieces were found. Good riddance, if anyone was asking an old physician. And Merlin wasn't even limping anymore. More worrying was the bruising on Arthur's side, but Arthur wasn't leaving Camelot this morning, and these two young sons of Gaius' old friends were.

"You're serious?" Gwaine exclaimed. "In through his ear?" Swinging one leg over the bench, he faced Gaius with a grin and raised brows. "So, what does it feel like to be possessed by a goblin?"

Sir Geart had been possessed of a greater sense of propriety, than levity.

"It felt like, time to go," Gaius said sternly. "You dally any longer over your breakfast and Arthur's liable to show up here with guards."

"It's not that late yet, surely," Gwaine protested. Merlin ducked his head low over his bowl, eyes gleaming with humor, and shoveled the last spoonfuls of porridge into his mouth, one after the next after the next.

But the knock on Gaius' chamber door wasn't Arthur. Sir Leon pushed through, one arm in a sling to support a cracked collarbone; Gaius had complimented his assistant on her diagnosis and treatment, it was a neat piece of work. Sir Acollyn of Trevena was just behind him, his arms full of what turned out to be Merlin's armor and weapons, appropriated when the young prince of Caerleon had been captured.

"Ah!" Merlin said – and almost tripped over the end of the bench, rounding it to reclaim his property. "Thanks!"

"How are you this morning, Leon?" Gwaine said with sardonic familiarity, as Acollyn gripped Merlin's blades in one hand and helped him adjust the leather breastplate sewn with iron rings.

"Sore," Leon returned mildly, unoffended. "And you?"

"It's always good to wake up alive," Gwaine returned with a grin.

Merlin stretched to slide his sword into the sheath sewn into the back of his breastplate, and set one boot up on Gwaine's bench to tuck a dagger into its hiding place. "So I hear you're taking Morgana back to Trevena?"

Gaius suspected, from something Gwen had said, and, watching, caught the young knight's blush. "It's been a long time coming. Everyone will be happy to have our lady home."

"No one happier than you, eh?" Gwaine quipped, watching Merlin's second dagger disappear with a look of approval. "A lot less competition of the young and male and entitled for Her Ladyship's favor there, yeah?"

Merlin's balance wavered, as he looked up into Acollyn's face in surprise, but when he put his foot on the floor, his cheery grin was at odds with his barbaric attire. He offered Sir Acollyn his hand, saying, "I'm glad she'll have you."

"She'll have all of us," Acollyn corrected, fitting a vambrace over Merlin's indigo sleeve instead of taking his hand.

Merlin, undeterred, gave the knight's shoulder a slap with his free hand. "Hey. You can come to my wedding if I can come to yours."

Acollyn dropped Merlin's second bracer, and the prince of Caerleon tightened the first with his fingers and his teeth, grinning around the laces. Gwaine nudged Leon's good arm. "I'll promise not to come to your wedding if you promise not to come to mine."

"Done," Leon said instantly, lifting his hand to seal their deal with a hearty clasp.

Gaius controlled a simultaneous twitch of lips and eyebrows, and put more energy into grinding starflower seeds.

Acollyn straightened to fasten Merlin's second vambrace with studious attention to detail. "Might we contact your tutor also, Sire?" he said, eyes on his work. "I know you're meant to write to him, and Prince Arthur, but I thought if… we might request a female instructor of his recommendation…"

"Just Merlin," the prince said seriously. And, "Of course. Good luck with that, by the way. She'll need someone like you – there are going to be days when she's ready to scream with frustration."

"Were there for you?" Gwaine asked him, interested.

"Almost always," Merlin admitted cheerfully. "But the king made sure to channel that frustration on the training grounds."

"I'll want to test that statement someday," Gwaine threatened.

"I'm going to miss your fields," Merlin said to Leon mournfully, not denying Gwaine. "All that lovely grass to take a fall on. Gwaine, you should try that."

"I haven't taken a fall in years," Gwaine claimed.

Gaius, thinking enough was enough, and it was now or never get a word in edgewise, cleared his throat with significant intent, and won their attention.

"Yes," Leon said hastily. "It is time to go, rather. You're walking out with us, Gaius?"

"Well," he said ungraciously. "I do have my rounds to get to, shortly…" Positioning the strap of his round physician's case over his shoulder as a hint, he waited at the doorway as Merlin and Gwaine retrieved their packs, and the four young men sauntered down the tower stairs together.

Talking, chuckling. Occasionally a protest was raised, occasionally a laugh. Quite a different sound in the old hallways than when Uther was a young king; Gaius wondered it if was an omen indicative of Arthur's reign.

And soon Morgana would be leaving them also. They came out into the cool gray dawn, the sun still tucked behind the high walls of the citadel courtyard, to see that Morgana and Gwen waited in quiet conversation at the top of the stairs, both girls turning at their approach.

Now they knew for a fact that the young lady was more like her older sister than had been good for her. Although Gaius might privately admit, the lavish attention Uther had showered on the young girl, in direct contrast to the demands he laid on his young son, might have been as much to blame for Morgana's failings as any connection the elder Gorlois daughter might have exploited for her own ends.

Not that he entirely blamed her for the paths she had chosen, either. But no one was asking an old physician for his opinion.

"I am so glad to have gotten to know a sorcerer at last," Gwen was saying to Merlin, "and I am so glad that it was you."

"And I am so glad to know that Camelot has people like you," Merlin returned, reaching for her hand to lift and kiss it, like the lady more and more people were realizing Guinevere the blacksmith's daughter was on the inside. Not soon enough, to Gaius' mind.

Then Merlin turned to Morgana, holding out his hand to suggest that she offer her own for a kiss also – and the corner of a mischievous smile showed on his face. "Morgana?"

Before she could react other than startled, Gwaine slid in between them, mimicking Merlin's offer. "Morgana?"

"Absolutely not," she said to him icily, eyes flashing.

"See," Merlin spoke above Leon's chuckle and Gwen's giggle, "I have influenced you to make good choices."

"Oh," Morgana said, a quick sound that had something of a gasp and a sob in it, and took a quick step forward to hug Merlin instead, surprising more than just him. "Thank you. For everything."

"You're right that all magic is kin – or should be," Merlin told her as she stepped back again – toward Acollyn, as chance might have it. "Acollyn, remember your promise. Morgana, til we meet again…"

Morgana turned with a questioning look up into the young knight's face; he tried to look innocent and ignorant, through a rise of color. Gwaine was trying to kiss Gwen's hand and keep her from slapping him, and Merlin shoved him away, almost causing him to lose his balance down the stairs.

Gaius paused beside her for a moment. "How was His Majesty this morning?"

Gwen gave him a little frown, expressive in the middle of the light-hearted leave-taking. "He forgot my name. His shirt was on backwards and he wondered why there was breakfast on his dinner tray. It looked like he'd been up a while in the night, drawing pictures on his parchments. Monsters – the goblin – but a few might have been Arthur's mother?"

Gaius sighed and nodded. He'd have to keep an eye on Uther, maybe adjust some dosages for all their sakes. "And His Highness?"

Gwen's eyes passed his shoulder, seeking the prince regent waiting at the bottom of the stair with the horses for Merlin and Gwaine and their escort. Her look was not unlike Acollyn's to see Morgana; Gaius approved, on the whole, though it wouldn't be an easy decision or transition to make, for maid or prince.

"A bit stiff, and favoring his side, but he's moving well and claimed to have slept soundly."

Gaius harrumphed. "Very well."

He followed Merlin and Gwaine to the bottom of the stair, to hear Merlin say to Arthur in mock dismay, "What, no hug from you? But Morgana-"

"Don't be utterly ridiculous, Merlin," Arthur said, with his jaw set like he was trying very hard to be proper, and not grin. "I'm simply liberating a captive enemy upon accepted payment of ransom."

"Does this mean I'm not welcome to come visit anymore?" Merlin teased. He seemed in very good spirits, Gaius thought, to be heading home.

"I – had an idea about that, actually," Arthur said, glancing toward Gwaine. "I thought perhaps we could jointly employ you as an envoy. An unofficial emissary, as long as the king of Caerleon refuses to treat with Camelot."

"Oh – but _we_ could continue correspondence," Merlin exclaimed. "Fantastic idea, there are _things_ I want to say to you-"

"Hells," was Arthur's dry response.

"I… can't," Gwaine said, sounding curiously reluctant, for a mercenary. He looked at Merlin. "Have you forgotten my terms? I've got to kill someone and join Caerleon's ranks, if I go back."

"Not if you're coming as a citizen of Camelot," Merlin objected. "I mean, I know you couldn't stay like I'd wish you to-"

"I suppose we could rummage up a title for you, if it makes it easier," Arthur put in. "Of course you'd have to swear some oath or other, to be trusted…"

An awkward moment of implied but uncertain friendship stretched between them – _I don't really want this association, whatever it is, to end, do you?_ – and Gaius rolled his eyes.

"Perfect," Gwaine concluded with a grin that covered rather than expressed his emotion. "I swear all the damn time."

"We'll work it out," Merlin said to Arthur.

The prince regent nodded, swaying half a step backward, straightening his shoulders and lifting something from his pocket that trailed a longer, thicker chain than that of the lost and broken _Endel-Easnes_. Merlin's eyes lit to recognize the symbol of his kingdom, and he took it gladly, passing the chain around the back of his neck and maybe even standing a little straighter to have the silver crescent hang to his heart, over his armor.

"You kept your word, Prince of Caerleon," Arthur said formally. "Depart now with our appreciation and all the honor you deserve, and that we can accord you."

Merlin inclined head and shoulders in a surprisingly respectful bow. "I am happy to have surrendered," he said. "One could not ask for a nobler enemy – or friend." He offered his hand and Arthur took it, unhesitating.

Gaius sighed. Arthur's fledgling reign would not be uncomplicated. Uther fought long and hard and claimed it was to make his kingdom a better place for his son to rule, and perhaps there were details where that was so. But Uther had caused this sorcerer-prince to be beaten and assaulted in this very courtyard, and though his son extended his hand willingly to touch magic, it would not be so easy or so soon for the rest of the kingdom.

But Merlin beamed at Arthur and Gaius thought, what does an old man know? Perhaps there is optimism and enthusiasm enough, there.

And Merlin was turning to wrap his arms around Gaius' shoulders, surprising him with a show of affection very un-barbarian-like. "Take care of Gwen. And Arthur. And thanks for everything. I'll write, if you like – I'm sure my mother will appreciate hearing anything you remember of my father."

Gaius cleared his throat. "That's as it may be," he answered. "Merlin…" The young man drew back, blue eyes bright. Gaius added deliberately, "I daresay the whispers calling for Emrys from the cells have stilled."

Merlin rolled his eyes, and turned away to mount his horse; Gwaine was already in the saddle, gathering reins. But Merlin's tutor had been quite correct after all – that destiny did not require knowledge or intervention or even belief for its fulfillment.

Arthur frowned quizzically at Gaius. "What does that mean? Emrys?"

"Time enough for that later," Gaius told him, as the two joined their escort. Raising waves and last calls of farewell, they trotted from the courtyard and out of sight beyond the wall.

"Well," Arthur remarked, shrugging. "It will be quieter around here, anyway."

Gaius grunted. "Wishful thinking, sire."

"You are probably right." The golden-haired boy sighed, and turned away to accept the significance of the weight of his own destiny.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….

Gwaine was not one to linger on regrets. You made mistakes and you learned from them, or you repeated them and had no one to blame but yourself.

But the longer he kept company with the prince that might have been his – could be his again in the future, if he chose it? – the more he wished he had bit his tongue all those years ago, standing before a king who hoisted a slip of a black-haired sorcerer-boy into the air to dangle and fearlessly defy.

He was cheerful and tough, smart but not arrogant, friendly with their escort without losing any pride in being who he was. Gwaine found himself thinking on oaths and allegiance, fealty and obedience, more often than he was comfortable with.

All too soon they reached the river that formed the border between Caerleon and Camelot and reined in.

"Thanks, boys!" Merlin called to the pair of knights who'd discharged escort duty fairly stolidly, since they'd departed the citadel the previous morning. "Safe journey home!"

He turned his gelding's head to the ford, but when Gwaine kept his own chestnut mare – gift of Arthur's, the horse but not the chainmail or helmet _or_ cloak – from following, Merlin paused to look expectantly over his shoulder, the gelding dipping his head to drink.

"Aren't you crossing over?" he said with surprise – and maybe disappointment, if Gwaine wasn't reading too much into his new and only friend's expression.

"You've got warriors waiting for you," Gwaine said, gesturing. Probably the handful weren't visible to the knights of Camelot, who lingered to be sure the enemy prince actually crossed to his own kingdom.

"I know," Merlin said, still clearly expecting additional excuse. The gelding raised his head, muzzle dripping, ears swiveling forward in attention to something across the Rusk River.

"And I take my self-exile very seriously," Gwaine said, with a grin to make it a joke. Well, half a joke.

"But…" Merlin lifted his brows like a child trying to argue for his way with an adult, "if you're going to be our envoy, I might as well introduce you as such immediately."

Gwaine hesitated.

"I mean to make it clear to my king, that my attitude and actions are going to reflect my beliefs, not his," Merlin said, suddenly and disarmingly frank. "This might be my first step. Claiming you for my friend as he should have done long ago."

Oh. The mare was moving before Gwaine consciously gave the signal.

"Well, if you put it that way," he said casually, passing Merlin into the river. The prince grinned and followed.

The Rusk River was not so deep that they needed to slip from their saddles to let the horses swim, but Gwaine's trouser legs were soaked several inches above his boots, and it made him think of the daggers hidden in Merlin's. He looked back as they splashed up onto the bank on the Caerleon side, to see the two red-clad knights wheel their mounts unconcernedly and canter out of sight.

Facing forward, he watched Merlin lift one boot, then the other from their stirrups, taking out the hidden dagger to wipe them dry on the thigh of his trousers. Completely ignoring the handful of warriors that materialized from the sparser forest in front of them.

Three of them veiled, one with his head wrapped and his bearded face showing, and the fifth – was the king. Looking ten years older, and ten years meaner, if that was possible.

Gwaine resisted the urge to put his hand to the hilt of his sword. And marveled that such a hard land and such a hard guardian could still produce a young prince like Merlin.

If there were murmurs among the warriors, Gwaine didn't hear it over the sound of their horses, and the veiled figures remained still, focused on the two of them. Merlin reined in and kicked his leg over the front of his saddle to drop easily to the ground; Gwaine followed more slowly and warily, leaving reins to trail as the king stepped forward to meet his heir.

There was tension in the set of Merlin's body like Gwaine hadn't seen the whole while they were in Camelot and the company of foreign royalty. But there was no welcome or warmth that he could read in the scowling bearded king in front of him, either, and he found his own spine stiffening as keen dark eyes left Merlin to sweep over him in evaluation.

"I sent you to take two villages," the king rasped, looking back to Merlin. "I gave you two dozen men. Four returned without you, and now here you are, empty-handed and followed by a stranger. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Merlin breathed once, swaying slightly as his chest expanded and relaxed. Then said, "My men did not return to you empty-handed, they brought with them a tenth part from both villages. My surrender paid for the four lives you mentioned, and six of them paid for our folly with their lives. And with all due respect, Your Majesty, I will have no part in any such, ever again."

The king's hands rose to his hips, his eyebrows pushing the lines on his forehead deeper, and he rocked back slightly on his heels.

"The council of Camelot has given Prince Arthur regency," Merlin continued. From Gwaine's position he could see the line of his jaw clearly set, the steadiness of his gaze on the king. "Your feud with Uther Pendragon is finished. It is meaningless and self-defeating to provoke or risk war with these thieving methods. Arthur has earned my respect and I have earned his, and I have given my word the borders will be inviolate as far as I can assure it. And, with or without your permission, I will be dedicating my abilities to strengthening and improving and increasing the productivity of what we now hold, rather than to the conquering of that which rightfully and peacefully belongs to others."

Now the eyes of the veiled three were darting back and forth uncertainly, and the bearded fourth was – grinning? Confused, Gwaine watched the king raise his right hand, fingers curving into claws, as though he was tempted to grasp a handful of his heir's clothing and draw him into a position of forced submission, as Gwaine had witnessed before.

But he halted. Looked at his hand, and clenched it briefly into a fist – then relaxed it to wrap heavily over Merlin's shoulder.

"It's always been words with you, boy, hasn't it," the king said. "You learned that from the queen, maybe? Half-decent with a sword, and all magic aside, you choose to fight with your words." Without letting go, he shifted to face the bearded man. "I recall it took me six minutes to best my king, my father. And that was after he'd struck me down twice before for my attempt at defiance."

"In two weeks he negotiated his own freedom from Camelot, whether he was considered a criminal or a prisoner of war," the bearded man said. "And without any cost to Caerleon. We've lost nothing save what men risk every time they fight – and we've won a potential treaty and ally in our strongest enemy."

The king coughed out a laugh. "Perhaps he learned his way with words from you, Tythan."

That was a name Gwaine remembered, and he studied what he could see of the other with increased interest. So close had he been to winning a place in the ranks of Caerleon's warriors – and this Tythan had spoken up in his favor, as young prince Merlin had.

But the king was turning back to his heir, using his grip to pull Merlin forward a stumbling step and wrapping his arms around the slender shoulders to pound the younger man's back. Merlin seemed frozen in uncertainty or shock; Gwaine could sympathize with the reaction.

"By damn, boy," the king said gruffly. "Thought they'd execute you. Or you'd have to pull their citadel down on top of yourself trying to get away, or even survive. But you walked away free and clear…" He cleared his throat, and Gwaine blinked at the brightness in his eyes, as the king shoved Merlin back to arms' length. "I'll toast to you saving me the trouble of choosing and training another."

"We can have a very credible feast put together by tomorrow night, provided we reach Beckon Cove before midnight," Tythan offered, and gave Merlin a crooked smile. "He'll have to prove that he can drink like a man."

Merlin made a noise of protest, which everyone ignored because it made Gwaine snort in amusement, and drew their attention.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," the king said bluntly, letting his hands fall away from Merlin, thumbs curling around his belt. "You look like Geart's boy. What was his name, again?" He cocked his head back toward Tythan.

Who, surprisingly, remembered before Merlin could interrupt with introductions. "Gwaine, sire."

"This is Gwaine," Merlin confirmed. "He approached me in Camelot with an offer to help me escape. Which wasn't necessary, but he remained with me til I'd won my freedom. Prince Arthur intends to appoint him as an envoy between us."

"Between the two of you?" the king demanded narrowly. "Or am I simply to receive _this_ , with no say in the matter?"

"Yes," Merlin said firmly, answering both questions – or neither. "I am ready this moment to bestow a personal knighthood."

The king growled. Gwaine was not at all sure that he was successful hiding the astonishment he felt.

"If," Merlin continued hastily, "it were not an insult to Your Majesty, and if Gwaine himself was ready to welcome such ties of loyalty."

"He has reservations, does he?" the king rasped, glaring at Gwaine.

Merlin answered sarcastically, "Can you blame him?"

The king took two steps away from Merlin to face Gwaine. And up close, he could see the passage of years. Beard nearly white. Half the dark hair gray. More and deeper wrinkles, and maybe even a tired cast to eye and mouth. Not the ruthless monster Gwaine had hated for adolescent years. Or at least, not anymore.

Gwaine filled his lungs and realized, he was about an inch taller than the older man. As strong as, as fast as… or more so, it might be.

"I swore that you'd return to us having killed for a position, or died trying," the king declared. "You swore you never would."

Gwaine tried to keep his grin respectful. "Arthur and Merlin are the sort of men to make a fellow rethink prideful foolishness."

Merlin looked embarrassed and pleased; the king grunted. "Perhaps someday I will meet this wondrous whelp of a Pendragon. He wasn't much to consider as a child-"

"Neither was I," Merlin murmured.

The king affected not to hear. "But, if you come as Camelot's appointed envoy, I will receive you in my hall and at my table."

"I suppose I ought to thank you for Arthur's sake," Gwaine said.

The king shifted to look at Tythan, pointing a stubby forefinger back at Gwaine. "You see? I said he was going to be mouthy, didn't I?" Merlin flashed a grin at Gwaine before the king turned away, apparently considering the interview concluded. "All right, let's go! Back to the Cove, we're wasting daylight!"

"I kind of wish you could come back with us," Merlin said to Gwaine, quickly frank. "Where will you be, that I can reach you?"

"There's a tavern, half a day's ride northeast," Gwaine told him. "I'll be in the area."

"Give me a week or so," Merlin said. "I want to copy the parts of our law code relevant to magic, and you can carry them back to Camelot for Arthur."

"I'll be waiting," Gwaine promised, aware of the warriors heading out at a jog, not waiting for their prince. Mounted, he could catch up in moments, but the two of them couldn't linger. "Elyan owes me a drink, or I owe him one, or something."

Merlin sighed. "I'll miss it. Them, I mean." He turned away, and swung up into his saddle. "Take care of yourself, Gwaine."

For the first time in his life, Gwaine bowed – not deeply, but sincerely. "Highness."

Merlin grinned and looked proud, sword-hilt jutting over one shoulder, ring-studded breastplate hugging his chest. They hadn't made him wild and careless and brutal at all – and maybe his character would have an effect on the kingdom in reverse, eventually. That was a Caerleon Gwaine was interested to see.

He watched his young prince ride to join the others of Caerleon's warriors, straight-backed and confident, and laughed to himself, shaking his head.

Merlin had changed his life, after all. Had saved his life.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin expected to miss Gwaine before long, and he did. Most of Caerleon's warriors weren't as conversational as the mercenary, and he expected the sense of isolation that came from being the heir of the throne, and magic, and only a passable swordsman, to make itself felt more keenly after he'd gotten used to and found himself enjoying the company of others in Camelot.

But after the first several moments of travel, Tythan moved next to Merlin's horse, jogging, as his mare and the king's gelding were the only mounts.

"I could've throttled you for surrendering, that day," he remarked, and the others were close enough in formation to hear, though no one looked around. Merlin glanced at the king's back, but saw no sign that he was listening, or cared. "They treated you respectfully, though, truly?"

"They treated me warily," Merlin corrected with honesty, remembering the first two days, before Arthur's troop had arrived in Camelot.

Tythan laughed out loud; the other warriors turned their heads, and the king twisted in the saddle to give Merlin a grimace of approval. "Her Majesty said, you were one to succeed in unusual ways."

"Oh, it wasn't boring. Or all talk," Merlin said. "Cenred brought an army of mercenaries to attack Camelot-"

"You could've escaped in the battle," one of the other soldiers suggested.

"Turns out," Merlin said, not bothering to argue the point, or the honor behind the choice he'd upheld, "that a witch who'd allied with Cenred had raised the Knights of Medhir from Idirsholas, and I had to enchant a sword that would kill them…"

They were eager to hear. He half-expected the king to glare or growl for silence and faster, harder travel, but the older man rode quietly attentive, as the men teased and joked and speculated over the legend, and the fact.

And maybe he could never confide in them his hopes and dreams and fears and beliefs the way he had begun to with Arthur, but – he didn't have to hold himself aloof and assume that each of his warriors was typical the way Camelot had done with him. And there was his mother, and the queen, and Freya. Arthur to write to, and Gaius, and maybe Trevena – and he was determined to persuade Gwaine to frequent Beckon Cove willingly and comfortably, before too many years passed.

"If we push, we can still make it by midnight," Tythan was saying to the king.

And for the first time, the older man looked over at Merlin, tacitly inviting input. "What do you think?"

Almost he couldn't believe his ears. He'd known for a while in a vague way that the king was waiting for him to prove himself, more than just demonstrating acquired skills and abilities, with a sword and with magic and with the queen's lessons. But he expected the king to be satisfied with no less than some fantastical feat of arms in battle or in challenge – capturing and keeping two of Camelot's villages – which he doubted he could or would be able to accomplish. He was reasonably sure of surviving any violent encounter, and had a hope that learned and applied tactics would not get too many of his men killed, but he privately believed that the king would remain at least partially dissatisfied with him, maybe forever.

And now, what he feared would be the greatest disappointment of all, turned into the shocking moment of having earned a place in his king's respect.

"If I'm being honest," he said sardonically, trying not to let it show, how deeply he felt the shift, "I miss my bed. But Her Majesty-" and his mother- "is going to want to make a fuss, isn't she. And if we sneak in after midnight…"

Two of the warriors snickered. The king held Merlin's eyes and let the corner of his mouth twist in something not unlike a smile, and Merlin was startled by another realization. The king knew that too, about his wife, and didn't mind it. And allowed her to indulge her inclination, because – he loved her? In his own way, at least. In this, in other things Merlin had never considered, because he'd been thinking like a child. He'd been treated like a child, tolerated and corrected but not included. Not until today.

So, if he was prepared to act like a man and stand up to the king on his own two feet – the king was prepared to accept him as a man. Something nearer to an equal.

"She'll make us wish we hadn't," the king concluded gruffly.

"The same could be said of the men," Tythan offered good-humoredly. "They're going to want to make some noise and drink some ale. The prince is home, and rescued his own damn self."

"So we'll camp for the night," the king decided. "And arrive midmorning."

"And celebrate the rest of the day," one of the veiled soldiers suggested.

"Hells," Merlin said, in dismay at the prospect. And the laughter of the other men drew him in and pounded his back and punched his arms and shoulders in solid camaraderie. Like never before – and with a promise of continuity.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya had three days to come to terms with the revelation Queen Annis had carried with her, back from Camelot.

When Her Majesty had summoned Freya, the morning after she and Hunith had returned, privately she'd had to steel herself against nameless fear and heavy cold paralyzing dread, having to force her body to obey. Put down what she was doing, make herself presentable, cross the bailey and enter the tower and curtsy. And realize that Hunith was there to hear whatever Annis had to say, also.

Which meant it wasn't some terrible news of something that had befallen Merlin while he'd been absent. Hunith would have known that – and the quick reassuring smile the older woman sent her had warmed and calmed her.

Initially.

The term _dragonlord_ was one she'd never heard before, its usage outdated since – oh, well, there was one left. Free and far. And since her first few weeks of association with the prince – her prince – young and slender and intent, determined and focused and powerful enough to break the sort of magic that forced a change in everything about her, body-mind-spirit, she found she wasn't surprised at all to hear, _additional_ , and _unique_.

Hunith was more confused. _Dragonlord_ was an inherited thing, and Merlin's father had never said… Well, what did it mean for Merlin? What were the responsibilities…

Freya's heart had ached at that. Because she knew how seriously he took his responsibilities as crown prince, how far short he privately believed he came, how he agonized over the consequences to the kingdom and everyone in it if he couldn't measure up to expectations and requirements.

The queen was unsure what _dragonlord_ entailed. She paused, and added deliberately, _Balinor would know_.

Well, that was true enough. Freya knew Merlin believed his father dead, even as she knew Hunith couldn't quite release her grip on hope.

 _Gaius told me_ … the queen said. And Freya felt the echo of Hunith's sharp but glad cry.

 _I feared something happened to him. But he's alive_ – it was the sound her own heart had made only moments before, to realize the fact of Merlin's safety and wellbeing, even hostage in Camelot.

Balinor was alive. Merlin's father was alive. Or had been, more than a year ago, when the captive dragon was released from the caverns below Camelot.

 _Why didn't Gaius tell me?_

Freya knew the answer to that, and hoped the queen could read her gratitude in her eyes. If Hunith had known, she'd have told Merlin. And once Merlin knew – he'd move heaven and earth, maybe even literally, to find his absent parent. As much for the sake of the mother he loved, as for himself. Freya didn't want him to leave on a quest like that before she'd seen him again, had made sure for herself that he was all right.

It was a good thing Freya could measure ingredients and calculate time passing and knead great lumps of dough while her mind was elsewhere.

"He's back!" A shadow darkened the bakehouse door, left open to the bailey for the cooling breezes when the furnaces were burning. Freya blinked at the figure silhouetted there, but didn't recognize the maid.

"Who's back?" the baker demanded, sounding irritated at the sudden interruption – but seemed to make the connection a moment before Freya did. Not some warrior the unidentified maid fancied at the moment and dropped by to gossip about.

"The prince!"

Freya gasped sharply, the lump of sticky dough tumbling from her fingers back into the bowl. Everyone was looking at her; she didn't care, but had the presence of mind to keep her doughy fingers clear of clothing and anything that might transfer dirt, hurrying to the doorway which the maid obligingly shared.

"Did you see him?" Freya demanded. "Did he seem all right?"

All she could see was a band of twenty or thirty warriors, raucously making their way toward the tower-palace, and the king in the lead, ignoring his men but not restraining them either. Was Merlin at the center of that knot of exuberant masculinity? She couldn't tell – and neither could she rush out and make any claims.

"I just caught a glimpse," the maid said in her ear. "He looked as he did when they left three weeks ago. His armor – his weapons – he didn't look injured at all. Maybe smiling? I couldn't tell."

"They'll be calling for a feast," the baker predicted behind them. "They'll take him to the queen in the hall, and his mother, and they'll want food the rest of the day. Freya…"

She couldn't even turn to look away, searching for the sight of his black hair among the head-wrappings of the other warriors; he never covered his head or his face unless there was need for a hood from his cloak.

The maid snickered, and the baker sighed. "This batch is almost done. Carry it up to the hall, and then I guess I can make do without you."

It should have been embarrassing. Freya tried to be discreet about the way she felt about Merlin, not to assume that she was special because of his notice, and ought to be treated differently. There was no formal understanding, and she was very aware of her own shortcomings when it came to the potential of their future. _I know how I feel about him, but… I'm almost always sure that anyone else would make him a better… a better queen._

Maybe that was why there was no formal understanding. But right now, she couldn't remember why she cared if everyone else knew the depth and strength of her feelings.

Yanking off her apron strings, she scrubbed her hands clean and tossed the garment at the small basket they kept for laundry, snapping out a clean linen to line another basket, she helped the baker transfer the hot seed-rolls, ignoring the discomfort of the residual heat in their crusts in her haste.

"Bit of flour," the maid in the doorway said, lifting a corner of her own apron to rub over Freya's cheekbone.

"Don't drop those," the baker commanded after her.

Heat from the new-baked bread flowed over her hands and forearms as she hurried across the bailey toward the tower stairs, and she thought she should have stopped to roll her sleeves down. To comb her fingers through curls tangled by perspiration, or remove the kerchief holding her hair back from her face. Or why stop there? She should have bathed and put on her best dress…

And then she was at the open doorway of the dining hall, before she was ready.

Noisier than she had ever heard it, and busier – for a moment the chaos overwhelmed her, and she froze, gripping the rim of the basket with her elbows as well as her hands. Rarely were the men gathered indoors so boisterous. Rarely the servants required in such numbers, and rushed.

Freya found herself smiling through the prickling in her eyes, and laughing through the thickness of her throat. If Merlin ever doubted again that Caerleon wanted him, she could remind him of this, his first homecoming.

And then she saw him – to the side of the room, not the center – twenty paces from her. Less. Two of the warriors were carrying off his breastplate and sword; Hunith was just stepping back from a tearful embrace, the queen looking on with a stern sort of smile. The king was elsewhere in the chamber at the moment, giving orders to the servants or answering questions from the warriors, or something.

Merlin was the same, and not. The vambraces still at his wrists held the sleeves of his indigo shirt tight, and the pendant symbol of his status – rarely worn here in Beckon Cove – swung ignored down his breastbone. His smile lit his face, but his color was high, as if he felt the unexpected fuss was also unnecessary, and his hair was slightly disheveled from the removal of his armor. But there was something else about him, the lift of his chin and the steadiness of his gaze…

Her breath caught in her throat. He was so open, so full of life and hope and idealism, so earnestly generous, it was captivating to her.

But there was a lull, and as she stepped forward to leave the basket of bread on one of the tables – or catch someone's eye and hand it off – she heard the queen ask, all too clearly,

"And how were things left between you and the Lady Morgana?"

Once again her feet halted of their own accord. _Lady_. And it could be, a married Lady of Camelot, or an elderly Lady… But for Merlin's reaction.

He dropped his eyes and turned down the corners of his mouth and fiddled with the ties of one of his bracers. Freya was too far to hear his reply, lost in the rising celebration, but he was clearly discomfited.

Which meant there was something between him and the unknown Lady to be discomfited over.

Jealousy tried to scratch a hold on her heart. She knew who she was – an orphan, a druid, not a native of Caerleon born, cursed and a killer and penniless and friendless, once. Everything she had and everything she was had been given to her by them. By him.

She decided, her love was his, no matter what. The expression of it would have to be up to him to determine – lifelong friendship and devoted service, or…

In the middle of his response to the queen, Merlin suddenly lifted his head and look past Hunith, right at Freya. He didn't smile, but his eyes lit with some fierce emotion she couldn't identify, and he was moving before he'd excused himself, between his mother and queen, and headed for her.

Her body reacted separately from her uncertainty over _Lady_. She loved him, and he was home and he was safe – for the moment, that was all that mattered. Without looking away from him, she shifted the basket of bread to one side and slid it onto the end of the one of the tables. The memory of their farewell surged through her with an excitement and anticipation that made it hard to breathe and she skipped forward, ready to throw herself into his embrace-

Two steps short he stopped, jerking his weight to his back foot, lifting his hands as if to hold off her enthusiasm, and the fire died from his eyes.

"What's the matter?" she blurted, upset. Was he hurt after all, and warning her to cautious rather than exuberant demonstration? Or-

"There's something I have to tell you," he said.

Taking her elbow, he led her further into the corner, where they'd be out of the way of those passing through the open doors, and slightly more private from the rest of the room. She glanced over his shoulder at Hunith and Annis, but could guess nothing from their expressions – sympathetic but not apprehensive – of what Merlin might say.

He took a deep breath, making a little gesture as if to tell her, _Be patient with me for a minute…_

"There was a lady, in Camelot," he said. Watching his hands, so she could see his eyes, but he wasn't looking into her face. "Her name was Morgana, she was the king's ward. She was… she…" He closed his eyes and gave his head a little shake, as if to clear it.

A numb sort of chill stole over her, like someone behind her putting unfriendly hands on her shoulders.

"It was complicated," he went on in a low voice. "But – we kissed." He darted a glance up to her eyes, and wet his lips. "I kissed her. She kissed me. Twice, I mean. It happened."

Freya's eyes were on his mouth, now. Remembering how his lips felt, how she felt when he kissed her – quick and light affection on her cheek or darker deeper stirring when their mouths moved slowly together and didn't stop – and didn't want to stop til they were tingling and flushed and breathless and-

"I thought," she said. Was she confused – or not, and only hurt. "But I thought I – you – weren't we-"

"Yes," he burst out, desperately. "If you want me to explain, I can explain – there's so much to tell, I can only tell you-"

"I understand," Freya said, and she did. Hadn't she half expected it, all along?

He went on as if he hadn't heard. "She had magic, she lived in Camelot. It… was complicated. I felt sorry for her, I felt a little bit responsible for her-"

"She was beautiful?" Freya said wistfully. Because – that was her story, too, wasn't it? That was what Merlin first felt for her – sympathy, responsibility…

"Yes," he admitted, reluctantly and a bit ashamed.

Freya didn't see that he had any reason to be. They'd made no arrangements – partly for this reason. She was as certain as she could be, how she felt. She was just as certain that he could find someone much better than her for the place he'd need filled at his side, someday. "Spirited and confident?" she guessed. "Highborn? And magic."

"Yes." He sighed guilt and regret.

And it _hurt_ , but she wanted to keep as much of his regard as she could, cause him no further pain and herself no further embarrassment by making it difficult. "You love her," she said unsteadily. As short as the trip had been, the queen had been made aware of this girl – was she at all involved in Merlin's seemingly cost-free return? "You want to pursue her hand in-"

"What?" he said, completely incredulous, shocked into meeting her eyes. His widened as his brows rose, and he reached to touch her, cupping her face gently in his strong, callused hand. "No! How could you think- No, dearest, I love _you_ and I want _you_. I told her about you. I told her that I wasn't an option for her."

Magic, Freya remembered. In Camelot. Part of the attraction for a stranger-Lady to Merlin – how could it not be? that mix of power and humility was fascinating – but also, a motivation to escape any way possible.

"She – seduced you?" Freya ventured. She was aware there had been a girl or three to try that, here in Caerleon. But Merlin's own self-deprecating realism meant those attempts failed before they began, if he was even aware of them as such.

His mouth twisted, and he dropped his hand to claim hers – she realized she was twisting her fingers in her apron. "She tried."

"Why – are you telling me this?" Freya said uncertainly, distracted by the rush of emotion to have his fingers twine in hers. Because he couldn't have known that she heard the queen say the Lady's name. There was no other way Freya could have discovered his retreat from her to offer himself – even minimally for a pair of kisses – to another. He could have-

"Because I love you," he said, his voice low and rough and thrilling, amid the noise of the room. "Because I could not bear to have you show any feelings for me without first telling you the truth and saying, forgive me."

Freya struggled to breathe. He'd murmured those words before, exhaling them against her ear as her fingers mussed his hair and her lips brushed his neck, but that was – maybe a result of physical sensation, meeting for a quick moment in a shadowed hallway or temporarily quiet corner.

"You are beautiful," he continued. "Your spirit is quiet and calm and strong and good and I missed you – oh, how I missed you."

She gave a little gasp, blinking against the blur of moisture rising into her eyes, and leaned forward into him. "And I you. Merlin, I was so afraid…"

"I know." He released her hand to bend and slide his arms around her. More tentatively than he was used to, but she rose on her tiptoes against him and gripped his shoulders tightly, curling her hand around the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"But it's over now," she whispered, feeling his pulse with her lips as she spoke. A lady with magic and beauty and position and poise – and yet he preferred Freya. She couldn't say she was happy he had kissed another – but she could forgive. "You're home-"

"And I'm yours. Forever and always, I promise, if that's what you want. And in a few weeks, I'll ask you to think about marrying me-"

A shiver rippled through her – so sure was he that he preferred her to all others. They'd talked around it, of course, because she was definitely not one to encourage attention that had no possibility of serious future. And he was not one to give up hope that he could manage to attain a serious future.

"And if the king says no but I can persuade you to defy him with me we'll say our vows to the queen and my mother and run away for a week – or a month – or a year…"

She held him a little tighter. That was going to happen anyway, when he heard what Annis and Hunith had to say about his father. But right now – she pulled back just enough to see his face.

"I think I've loved you from that first night," she said. "You were so kind, you treated me like a person, you saved my life. My heart has always been yours. If you think I can do this-" she couldn't even say, become queen someday- "then I will do my best for you."

His smile warmed her to her soles. But when he dipped his head to press his lips to hers – willing and familiar and exciting – sparks kindled a deeper and more lasting fire.

Both of them moved at once, reaching for more, relearning and claiming possession by degrees. He tasted for a moment of hesitation and she gathered her courage to assure him of forgiveness and love… and desire…

And became aware of a different sort of whooping – whistling, cheering-

Merlin made a noise of amused awkwardness, and she broke away from him – minimally, as he held her close – to gasp against his lips. "Oh! in front of everyone!"

He nuzzled his forehead to hers, and she opened her eyes to meet his. "Do you mind?" he asked wryly.

She didn't pull back, or try to flee. This was his choice – this was her choice. "No."

The king bellowed over the noise of the men, "Now you'll have to wed her, boy!"

His eyes crinkled with laughter and delight, and she realized, he was her home. And lifted herself up to kiss him one more time.

 **A/N: So this was a really long chapter. But no one minds, and no one wants the romance cut short, right? And after this is just the epilogue…**


	29. Epilogue: Surety

**Chapter 29: Surety**

Gwen leaned to pour another splash of wine from the pitcher into the pair of goblets on the low table between her chair and Morgana's, as much to distract her former mistress as to calm herself.

"They're going to be late," Morgana said, shifting irritably in her own seat. "He's going to be late."

"Acollyn, you mean?" Gwen asked, sipping.

It was the first time in her life she was dressed and seated as a lady, rather than a servant. The first time she was someone's guest, and her hands wanted something useful to do. She had to keep reminding herself that it wasn't just a collection of royalty and nobility, this week in Trevena – it was her friends, who respected and accepted her as an equal.

"He insisted on going to inspect the damage himself," Morgana told her, again. "Fires aren't uncommon in the granaries, though fortunately they hadn't started to store the harvest, and it's been a dry summer. I love that he takes everything so personally – everyone in Trevena loves that about him, he got that from his father. But _today_ , of all days."

Gwen smiled sympathetically, leaning further to place her hand on Morgana's forearm, restless on the arm of the chair. Morgana was to be married tomorrow, and though it was to be a small ceremony in comparison to, say, a prince's – she shuddered and refused the nervousness that threatened – still there was the trepidation about marriage that Gwen herself shared. Though Morgana had no doubts about Acollyn – that she loved him and wanted to be with him – as Gwen had none about Arthur himself, neither could wholly deny the uncertainty and magnitude of the unknown, the burden of change and new responsibilities.

It would be interesting to meet the new princess of Caerleon, for that reason alone, if they had none other. A commoner herself by birth, and a fairly new bride. Gwen still regretted the wild late-spring storms that had prevented their attendance of the ceremony – she was curious about Caerleon itself, too.

Well, someday.

"Morgana," she said quietly, mindful of both her self-appointed task of settling the bride-to-be, and of Arthur's proximity – studying the portraits of Morgana's ancestors at the far end of the chamber, and letting them have a moment of female-only reunion. "They'll get here when they get here. You can't hurry them with worry."

Morgana hummed, not relinquishing dissatisfaction, but swallowed more of her own wine and relaxed further into her chair.

"Arthur wouldn't ask," Gwen went on delicately, "but what of your sister? Do you expect her tomorrow?"

Morgana made a face. "Part of me wishes she could be here. That she wanted to be here. But… I have no contact with her. Acollyn's father said they've never had any contact with her, here, though surely she could have discovered by now that I'm here, and not in Camelot. She could have written, or… something."

"Arthur's scouts say there's been no sign of her on the border, or in Cenred's territory," Gwen told her. Remembering how it had felt when Elyan left – how she'd feel if he'd left her alone in Camelot when their father died. His presence and the assurance of his love meant so much…

"I tried to scry the Isle of the Blessed," Morgana said in a low voice, glancing toward Arthur's back. "It didn't work."

"You could tell him that, actually," Gwen said. "Uther hasn't gotten any better, really, so the council has begun to relax about allowing Arthur sovereign authority in specific instances. He's done away with the death sentence for magic use, and he's forbidden anyone else from punishing those accused of it in any way. That means he presides over any and every trial personally, and can set a fair punishment. Theoretically."

"Have there been any?" Morgana asked, still eyeing Arthur as he shifted to the next portrait.

"There was one accusation made," Gwen admitted. "But no secondary witnesses or solid evidence, so Arthur dismissed it. And, he didn't even ask the person accused if it was true."

"He didn't want to be lied to," Morgana guessed, her mouth twisting in wry amusement.

Gwen made a sound of affirmation, knowing that her friend still regretted her own lies, four months ago in early spring.

"What are they going to do when he leaves?" Morgana asked. "The council, I mean? Does he know when?"

"It will be a week after we return to Camelot."

Gwen sighed. This was not a topic conducive to her relaxation, Arthur's knight's quest. Delayed by Uther for several years for no apparent reason – and then delayed further by the greater need for him to participate in the search for Morgana when she went missing. Now that Uther was declining, there was pressure for Arthur to complete that step of proving himself before the crown and throne were passed to him to claim.

"Leon will have command of the knights, and Sir Ectyr in all else. And you know they won't overstep their bounds when it comes to the ban and Arthur's modifications. They'll wait any trials for him, and as always, deal with an immediate threat as seems best at the time."

"Does he know where?" Morgana asked, but before Gwen could answer, the door swung open to reveal a liveried attendant.

Bowing to announce, "Their Highnesses, the prince and princess of Caerleon."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana stood from her chair at the pronouncement, anticipation leaping within her chest.

It had been almost four months since she'd seen Merlin, as with Arthur and Gwen, but she'd known them longer. Moments, only, before they could converse naturally and honestly. Four months of falling into Acollyn's eyes, of reveling in the sound of his voice, of hoarding the moments she'd watched him, unaware. The childhood friendship, the unrequited longing through separate adolescence – it wasn't perfect, what they had now, but his commitment to her was like bedrock, unshakable and unchanging. She knew how fortunate she was to have the chance to love someone who loved her back, someone as good and noble as Acollyn, whose belief that she could be good and noble too had carried her through many dark nights since.

But Merlin had been her first kiss. Complicated and confused, the sparking realization of what place a man might have in her life had originated with him. He'd woken curiosity, even if she'd nearly immediately decided, he was right and Queen Annis was right – and that, even before she'd reunited with her betrothed. She and Merlin had parted with an amiable understanding, and had written once or twice to discuss her training in magic – but she would be self-conscious to see him again, uncertain how he would act or react…

More than that, she was self-conscious to meet his wife. A girl she'd scoffed at for a shy and insignificant maid, in wondering why Merlin would prefer her, and who now outranked Morgana. Did she know about what had passed between Merlin and Morgana? Would it affect her behavior toward Morgana?

Merlin strode into the room grinning, almost exactly the same as she'd last seen him – indigo shirt loosely laced at his throat, the Caerleon crescent pendant from a silver chain around his neck, knee-high boots. He had a sword-belt looped around his head and one arm, crossing his chest to drop the sheathed sword down his side under his arm, an awkward way of carrying a weapon one intended to draw or use, but his open cheer declared no need for defense.

One hand stretched behind him to lead a smaller figure – the princess, his wife. She wore low boots that captured the cuffs of wide loose trousers, visible through embroidered side-slits of a shin-length tunic of Caerleon's blue-purple which she wore over a bleached blouse. A filmy scarf of the same indigo covered her hair and hid the lower part of her face – a protection against the dust of the road as they traveled.

"Ladies," Merlin greeted them first, with a cheerful and insouciant bow – but immediately shifted to face Arthur, turning from the portraits on the wall near the door. "Arthur – my lord."

"Your Highnesses," Arthur responded, almost entirely covering his satisfaction to meet the other prince Morgana still had trouble believing he'd genuinely befriended.

Beside her, Gwen had bobbed a curtsy – probably unnoticed by Merlin, but Morgana belatedly inclined head and shoulders respectfully.

The princess of Caerleon was loosening her scarf, baring her face and letting the delicate material drift down the back of her dark brown curls. She was very pretty, with fine features and a sweet expression, dark eyes and a full mouth. Shyly she flicked them a glance and gracefully bent her body, spreading one side of the divided tunic in respect – to Morgana's rank, and role as hostess, but maybe she'd heard of Gwen's betrothal to the prince regent of Camelot also. Gwen had rejected the idea of a title in the interim, but maybe the princess didn't know that.

"This is Freya, my wife," Merlin added, pulling her half a step closer to him with the hand he hadn't released. He beamed down on her for a moment and the look with which she met his eyes made Morgana want to smile.

The girl was obviously infatuated. Maybe that made the difference for him, if he could immediately tell that Morgana's attempt at seduction was just that.

"Freya, this is Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot – Lady Guinevere of Camelot – Lady Morgana of Trevena."

Arthur was bending over the princess' hand, and Gwen stepped forward, saying hastily, "No, it isn't Lady, Your Highness, Merlin is being too gallant. I'm just – actually, you can call me Gwen if you like."

The princess retrieved her hand from Arthur, cheeks pink, and glanced up at her tall young husband before responding to Gwen. "Merlin has told me so much about Camelot – I have to say I rather envy your position with your court physician. I'm sure it was far more exciting and fulfilling than my duties in the bakehouse."

"Perhaps a little too exciting at times," Gwen said, giving Arthur a wry smile. "Come, have a seat with us – there's some wine to wash the road dust from your throat – unless you've been sitting too long?"

"No – I'd love to trade a saddle for a cushioned chair." Freya followed Gwen; Merlin watched her proudly for a few steps before turning to speak to Arthur alone.

Morgana decided she had nothing to worry about from Merlin. He'd been frank about his emotions – what they were, what they weren't – from the beginning of their acquaintance, and she didn't imagine he hid much, from disinclination or inability.

So, Princess Freya.

"Welcome to Trevena, Your Highness," she said, pouring a third goblet as Gwen pulled another chair into a circle with their two seats.

"Goodness, that will take some getting used to," the princess said. "Please, it's just Freya, if you don't mind?"

Gwen gave her a nod of approval. "Of course. And congratulations on your marriage, we were sorry not to be able to make it."

"The storms." Freya took a sip of her wine. "Yes, it was awful. Actually probably good you weren't there, the river flooded in several places and Merlin was out twenty hours a day, helping shore up banks-" she glanced at Morgana– "with magic, of course. We actually postponed our wedding ceremony two days. It seemed selfish to insist when everyone was so busy and so tired."

"And now there's the drought," Morgana commented, thinking of Acollyn. And how glad she was that he would not postpone their wedding.

"Yes – have you gotten to weather magic in your studies?" Freya asked her, directly and guilelessly. Gwen's eyebrows went up, but Morgana had grown much more comfortable discussing the topic with strangers. There were nearly a dozen people in Trevena who knew – and maybe more who suspected, and circumspectly kept their own counsel about it. "Queen Annis asked, but Merlin said, that was powerful magic and dangerous to meddle with, because you could never foresee all the effects and how widespread they could be… I'm sorry, I feel like I'm talking too much, that can happen when I'm nervous."

"Don't be," Gwen said immediately, leaning forward in her chair. "I'm just the same."

"She is," Morgana confirmed with a smirk.

"It's just," Freya gave her a shy look, "Merlin has had my heart from the day we met, but I know that, when he was in Camelot, you and he… shared a moment."

Morgana grimaced to herself. Was the princess this sweet really, or was she putting on a completely convincing act? "A moment was all it took to see that anything more would have been a mistake," she said.

Freya nodded, as if that confirmed her own thoughts, or what she'd been told of the situation, and there was nothing of resentment in her expression.

Gwen tactfully nudged the conversation past the hint of potential awkwardness. "You fell in love with Merlin when you met him?" she asked, smiling. "I can see why, but – he was very lucky, then. I've known Arthur for more than half my life, but it's only been recent years that liking turned to loving."

"And before that, it was barely toleration," Morgana teased.

Gwen's color rose slightly, but she held Morgana's eyes and answered, "I liked him for longer than you were aware."

"Well!" Morgana couldn't help snickering. Her maid, hiding a secret fancy for the prince. "I'm glad he finally came to his senses to ask you, rather than some empty-headed princess."

Gwen glanced toward Freya. "I don't think I'm wrong in supposing, he might have been following an example in admitting the possibility of marriage between classes, enough to decide upon and pursue courtship with me."

"You mean Merlin?" Freya guessed, her face lighting up as she glanced over her shoulder toward the two men, involved in their own conversation and paying the three of them no attention. "Oh, I'm so glad, then."

"He's considered Merlin's example in other things," Gwen added, nodding toward Morgana.

"Magic," Freya said, understanding.

"I find I'm interested in this first day when you met Merlin," Morgana declared. Because she knew that Gwen had the characteristics a queen would need – she was level-headed and brave in a crisis, intelligent and quietly, politely confident with the council of Camelot. But what did a queen like Annis think about a successor like this?

"Oh, did Merlin not tell you?" Freya asked, surprised. Another glance back at him, as Arthur lifted his goblet and another from a high plinth beneath the portraits, giving one to Merlin. "No, I suppose he wouldn't. But it's well enough known in Caerleon… I was sixteen, he was seventeen. I had been captured by a bounty hunter, locked in a cage-"

Morgana's spine straightened. She had heard the story from Annis, but it was astounding that the girl herself would mention it – and tell the story to the two of them, essentially strangers.

"I was to be sold to the king of Caerleon – or taken to the king of Camelot for execution," Freya went on, sweetly serious but not self-conscious, confiding in a way that tried to comfort her listeners rather than shock them. "I had been cursed, you see…"

Her eyes dropped and a tremor ran through her. Maybe she wasn't ashamed of the facts, but the memories had to be horrific – and how was she still so sweet and gentle?

"Every night I transformed into a bastet, a large winged cat. A… a hunter. The druids had given up on… saving me, but the king executed the bounty hunter, and… gave me to Merlin."

Freya turned to look at her husband again, and Morgana saw surprising depths below the infatuation. Freya was clearly seeing that seventeen-year-old prince, in the moment, and love mingled with gratitude and debt and… life, and hope. Morgana found she was holding her breath. Annis probably saw in Freya the same strength Morgana saw in Gwen; Merlin evidently saw it, too. He'd said, _Strength and sweetness and generosity, but she has difficulty looking past the lowest time in her life and seeing that it doesn't define her anymore._ Probably Prince Merlin had been very influential in helping her to do just that.

"Those were almost twenty-hour days, too," Freya said, more lightly, and her smile made her eyes sparkle. "A fortnight before he broke the curse. He saw me at my very worst, and still treated me with kindness and respect. How could I not fall in love with him?"

He'd seen Morgana at her worst, too – that night in the crypts with the staff and the bones. Kindness and respect, though… She remembered Annis telling her that Merlin's magic and Freya's spirit were intertwined, and she finally understood what the queen of Caerleon meant.

"How could you not," Gwen agreed in a low voice. "Two years ago, I was mistaken for Morgana and kidnapped. And I had-" she shook her head- "no hope that anyone would come. But Arthur did."

"He didn't take much persuading, either," Morgana told her. "It was more a question of _how_ , than _whether_."

"So you know what I mean," Freya said to Gwen, smiling.

Morgana eased back into her chair, thinking of Acollyn. He had not exactly rescued her from a distressing situation she was helpless to escape from on her own – but he had unquestioningly lent her his strength and skill, that day in the Forest of Essetir. And there was no doubt that his faith and trust in her encouraged her to have faith and trust in herself – and when she doubted, she trusted him to respond with nobility enough for both of them.

Perhaps Acollyn had rescued her from emotional jeopardy…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin took several long swallows of wine from the goblet Arthur handed him. "That was… very welcome, thanks."

"You sure you don't want to sit down?" Arthur said, eyeing him.

"Hells, no. I want to stretch after being in the saddle." He did just that, locking his knees and leaning backwards until balance threatened embarrassment.

"It was a good trip? You seem very… lively."

Merlin grinned at the other prince. He'd missed Arthur's reserved sarcasm, missed goading him in return. He was so very unlike the warriors of Caerleon.

"I have had good news, since we last spoke," he told Arthur. "I've been married, which is very good for relieving frustration, but I'm now finally in a position to be able to leave my kingdom indefinitely to be able to do something about my news."

"Good news?" Arthur said, deliberately ignoring Merlin's comment about marriage. Which was all right, he had several days to tease and provoke his friend, while they were in Trevena for Acollyn and Morgana's wedding. "Gwaine said you were trying out some magic to benefit Caerleon's productivity, but I confess, those storms and that flooding made me think-"

"That was not me," Merlin protested. He was surprised and proud that Arthur didn't even hesitate to say, magic. Gwaine had told him Arthur was giving the topic serious thought. "Well, it probably wasn't me. I wrote to my mentor detailing my plan and he checked with his brethren in Helva – the ones who still talk to him – and they said they didn't believe there was any connection to what I did. Sometimes the weather is just, unexpected. And it'll probably be a few years before we can tell if what I did has made a significant difference. Because you can't just transform a wasteland into a meadow and conjure cows or barley out of thin air. Change has to be gradual and supported, to be lasting."

"I," Arthur said, with a crooked but genuine smile, "will drink to that." He did so, then added, "So what's your good news, then?"

"Um," Merlin hesitated, remembering. And tried to be tactful, "How is your father these days?"

Arthur swayed to face him more fully, blue eyes narrowing. "Healthy. And happy. As a ten-year-old child. Why?"

Merlin gave him an apologetic grimace. "I learned that my father is alive."

"Really?" Arthur said, surprised. "Well, that is – good news. I don't think… I ever heard, who your father was."

Merlin hesitated again, considering an abbreviated or vague form of the story. But probably Arthur deserved the truth. "There used to be a dragon under your citadel, caged," he said. "You mentioned it when I was there, that it had escaped or been freed, and was loose in the mountains."

Arthur quirked an imperious eyebrow. "And what does that have to do with your father?"

"The dragon was down there because of the Purge," Merlin went on. "The dragons were killed, and the dragonlords who spoke to them and sometimes – controlled them… save for one. Of each. My father helped your father chain the Great Dragon, the last of his kind, and then he fled to Ealdor, where he met my mother, but he was afraid of being followed so he left Ealdor before he knew of me and…" Arthur's expression had closed; Merlin could not tell what he was thinking. "When your kingdom was occupied searching for Morgana, my father returned in secret and freed the dragon."

"Your mother knew this, and never told you?" Arthur said skeptically. Still _thinking_.

"Ah. Gaius?"

Arthur's eyes moved past him, unfocused. And he swore softly, shaking his head. "That old man is too clever for his own good sometimes… Well, I'm glad for your father. And you're going to find him?"

"That's my plan," Merlin said. "After Morgana's wedding. Gaius told us where he'd been hiding, all these years, so I'll start there. I don't know about Camelot, but in Caerleon we haven't received reports about dragon sightings."

"No," Arthur agreed – he still wasn't looking at Merlin. "What will you do when you find him? Offer him a place in Caerleon? And the dragon?"

Merlin bit the inside of his smile, so he didn't insult his friend. Of course that would be a concern for Camelot. In spite of the formal assurances that had been made through Gwaine, Camelot's council had not allowed a prince regent to negotiate treaties or alliances. Now if Arthur were to take the throne himself rather than ruling in his father's stead…

"I promised you the border would not be broken by Caerleon," he said. "I will keep that promise whether our highlands hold a dragon, or not. My king has already said, he has no interest in attaching either to our kingdom any more officially than having adopted the man's son."

Arthur grinned suddenly. "I bet he was not happy to hear your father was still alive."

"There was some shouting," Merlin allowed. But he understood Thurston better, now, and the harsh words and raised voice was the king's way of treating him like an equal. He didn't like it, necessarily, but it no longer made him feel like a disappointment.

"Well, best of luck on your quest," Arthur said, shifting and glancing toward the door. Their host wasn't ready yet to receive guests, but they expected him within the hour, so had Merlin been told when he and Freya had arrived. "I've a quest of my own this summer, I suppose I can trust you enough to say."

"Thank you," Merlin acknowledged, giving a little bow. "Where are you off to?"

"I don't think you have this custom in Caerleon, but our knights usually complete a task, alone and unaided, after they've attained their status, but before they're accorded the title," Arthur said. "The conventions are slightly different for royalty, but mine's got to be done before I'm king, so…"

"A _lone_ and un _aid_ ed," Merlin enunciated sarcastically. "So what happens if you're injured, are you allowed to seek a healer? Or can you pay for a room in a tavern, or must you make your own camp every night? And what about armor and weapons, do you have to forge your own-"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said – crossly, but Merlin could tell he didn't mean it.

"No, I'm serious," Merlin protested. "Because I brought something for you. I was going to wait til after the wedding ceremony because actually it's nicer than what we brought for Acollyn and Morgana, but…" He set his goblet down and ducked out from under the sword-belt. "Acollyn's got one of his own – and Morgana too, since we heard she used to enjoy sword-play, those came from the smiths of Gedref, but this one I did myself."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur's hands accepted the sheathed sword and belt independent of the incredulity in his mind.

Ever since that spring and the extraordinary fortnight Merlin had spent in Camelot, he found himself wondering if he hadn't been tricked somehow, after all. Morgana was back – with magic and without an appropriate code of ethics, apparently. His father, as he knew him, was gone – leaving a genial shell who had no wish to meddle in Arthur's affairs of the kingdom.

The creatures were gone – and Merlin was gone.

They had received compensation for the damages done to Evorwick and Stonedown, for the knights who'd lost their lives, by way of Gwaine as messenger. Arthur didn't believe the king of Caerleon had anything to do with that. Perhaps Queen Annis, though... And then the invitation to cross the border – along with assurances of safety, since the status of the two kingdoms was still inimical, officially – but the storms that prevented them from actually going.

Arthur had not been at all sure what to expect from Merlin, seeing him again. And especially after hearing the story of his father and realizing that it was one more reason Merlin should be his enemy.

Wordlessly he eased the blade out of the sheathe. The hilt and crossguard were plain, leather wrapped with wire for a grip, the shape unassuming, but there were runes down the core – he flipped it – on both sides. He flipped it back – similar runes, but not exact.

"What do they say?" he asked, looking closer. They weren't etched, nor engraved, nor even stamped into warm and malleable metal – how had those symbols gotten there?

"One says, _Take me up_. The other, _Cast me away_. I mean. Not _me_ , obviously, it refers to the sword…"

Arthur huffed at Merlin's flippancy, because – he understood. It was the phrase of a king, of a _good_ king. To understand when to wield the weapon and authority and when to lay it down. Justice and mercy; decision and acquiescence…

"It had been a while since I handled your sword," Merlin was saying, reaching out to run his fingertips negligently over the tooling of the sheathe – which made Arthur wonder about that part of the gift also. "The night Cenred attacked, remember? So I hope I got the balance right for you – because it is meant to be used…"

Arthur tipped the blade, point dropping down, then swooping up, before he twisted slightly to be able to spin it beside him. Once slow, once fast, before lifting it up to point horizontally, arm extended. The balance was better, actually, than the sword he preferred to carry on patrols.

"And this is something I'd like you to keep to yourself, but – well, you can tell Gwen, I suppose. And Leon, probably, because I think Gwaine guessed and if they're waiting for us in the bailey he'll probably tell Leon, but no one else please because even the most loyal person can say the wrong word at the wrong time and be overheard by the wrong person-"

"Merlin," Arthur said, gripping _amused_ as an alternative to _overwhelmed_. "What are you babbling on about?"

Because he _was_ babbling. Almost nervously – did he not expect Arthur to accept or value such a gift? And did he mean he'd forged this with his own hands, or only commissioned it?

"The spell," Merlin said, taking a breath to calm himself visibly. "The one to kill the Knights of Medhir, but it dissipated because it was laid on top of the metal and wasn't part of it? This one was forged _with_ magic, so it will kill anything magic, anything already dead, for a lifetime."

Arthur grimaced at the thought that there should be much more of that sort of thing loose in the world to threaten innocent people. And so he held magic in his hand; he tilted the blade again and imagined that starlight blue spark reflected.

"It's my magic, so I know you can trust it," Merlin went on. "It'll protect you, and never turn on you, and…"

And he trusted Arthur to wield it. To give such a weapon to the son of a man his enemy twice over – such power, such advantage… A shiver went down Arthur's spine, but it made him stand straighter and resolve to deserve it. If that was at all possible.

"I watched him forge it," a feminine voice said, clear and sweet in the suddenly-realized silence of the room.

Arthur turned to see that all three ladies were watching them – Gwen, Morgana, and Freya, who had spoken.

"It took a really long time. But it was amazing magic."

Arthur looked at Merlin, who was still focused across the room on the ladies; he shrugged. "I had to ensorcell myself with the skill of sword-making, which isn't easy – sword-making, or enchanting one's self…"

"I wonder if-" Morgana began, but Merlin interrupted, with a sincerity and gravity that eliminated offense.

"No. Don't. Not ever. I mean it, it's not something magic-users do, generally, for good reasons."

"Then why did you?" Arthur said quietly. He had to focus on sliding the blade back into the sheathe; he couldn't meet the clear blue of his friend's gaze. He'd never had a friend like Merlin – and he didn't expect he'd ever meet another, either.

"Because you're the son of Uther Pendragon," Merlin answered in the same tone. "There will be those who won't forget that, no matter what you change about Camelot and its laws. There will be those who won't forgive, who won't care what you believe or what you're trying to do. The sheathe has got one of my other spells on it-" He spoke, but Arthur couldn't make out actual words, much less understand them. "You should have some protection."

"Someday soon," Arthur said, wishing that he could organize his thoughts quickly enough to offer something meaningful in return, "I will _welcome_ you to Camelot."

"That will be grand," Merlin said, his eyes lighting with his grin, as if he needed no better gift in return.

Well… first the quest, and then the crown. And then he could attend properly to the laws of the Ban, as well as navigate a treaty with Caerleon that could benefit them both.

And hopefully increase the circumstances of association.

"About my quest," he said. "This, what you've given me, is so much, but – I intended to ask a favor."

"Alone and unaided," Merlin reminded him impishly, then nudged Arthur's shoulder with his own. "But, of course. What is it?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya had been reserving judgment on Prince Arthur Pendragon.

Of course it was unfair to suppose any son was just like his father – or any daughter her mother – but she knew how apt Merlin was to see the best in people. And focus on that, and bring it out…

Take Gwaine for example. Startlingly impertinent, unbelievably careless – but through the course of three separate visits to Beckon Cove, she began to see what Merlin saw.

However, the way Merlin talked about Arthur made Freya feel wary, for her husband's sake. Perhaps the son of Uther Pendragon had manipulated and maneuvered his captive to Camelot's advantage – they hadn't executed him, as Annis had promised they couldn't – but he had carried scars with him, home to Caerleon.

Freya had been reserving judgment on Prince Arthur Pendragon. Merlin greeted him with the same enthusiasm he always demonstrated in speaking of his enemy-friend. Arthur was quieter, more contained, but she was satisfied in her few glances with the way they stood, they way they spoke, the connection they displayed-

And the look on Arthur's face as Merlin explained the sword.

Absolutely stunned.

"Was it _Ic the aweardian_ on the sheathe?" Lady Morgana murmured.

As Freya faced the two princes, Lady Morgana and Lady Gwen were behind her range of vision. And from what she'd seen of Gwen, she believed more fully what Merlin said of Arthur.

Now she had only to decide what she thought of the Lady her husband had kissed. Twice, and without serious intent, and months ago, before she and Merlin were even betrothed; and she believed Merlin loved her as much as she did him. It was hard not to, when he took her so gently apart in his arms, when he held her tight and gasped and shuddered those three words in the sparkling darkness…

But even though she and Merlin had possessed each other solely and intimately, Freya was still curious.

"That's the base spell," she told Morgana. "But there are added specifics."

"What an… amazing gift," Gwen said. "And he enchanted himself to forge it – does it last long, that spell? What did your blacksmiths say about it?"

"It only lasts a few hours, usually," Freya told them. "Merlin's can last all day. But the smiths said, they were glad they could do it on their own, without magic."

Gwen made a thoughtful noise, and moved her hands like she wanted to examine the sword herself, and Freya remembered that her father had been and her brother still was a blacksmith.

"Oh!" said a new voice from the doorway. "Your Highnesses – my lady – _my_ _lady_ …"

Freya turned in her chair to see the newcomer. He wore chainmail under his tunic – black, with a white cross under Camelot's golden dragon – light brown eyes, light brown hair that fell over his collar. Freckles covered a rather narrow face, but friendliness radiated comfortingly. He looked _nice_.

"I do apologize," he continued, shifting his glance to address all of them. "There was an urgent matter that required my attention. Welcome to Trevena."

She rose from her seat as the other two did, and Gwen moved to Arthur's side to greet their host. Merlin drifted toward Freya, holding out his hand to her with his eyes on Acollyn as he gave the knight the congratulations of their kingdom on his marriage. She took Merlin's hand gladly, slipping her fingers between his.

Sir Acollyn had met the others, she knew, so she felt heat rise to her cheeks when he bowed over her hand saying, "Your Highness."

"My lord," she murmured, glad for the warmth and strength of Merlin's hand.

And watched Acollyn turn to Morgana, reaching to embrace her in spite of their company, bending to wrap his arms around her ribs.

Morgana's green eyes lit with happiness and her red lips curved and parted with a smile – and a gasp that Freya thought maybe only she could hear, being closest. She threw her arms around Acollyn's neck, rising on her toes to bury her nose in the curly brown hair behind his ear, willingly allowing him to bend her body close to his.

Freya was completely satisfied. That was the way she felt when Merlin entered the chamber they shared now, at the end of a long day apart. He reached for her as Acollyn reached for Morgana – it truly was a love-match, not simply for convenience or to gain or transfer inheritance. Acollyn murmured something that made Morgana huff in amusement, and that made Freya smile, too.

Merlin released her hand, swaying toward her as she shifted to lean back against him, his arm around her back and his hand resting at her hip.

All well and good to find your way, to learn yourself and achieve independence. All the better to make friends along the way.

But when you found the one person to spend your life with – not just to defeat the loneliness of walking life's journey alone – but someone who made you stronger and wiser and better… And that person wanted you beside them too, to do the same for them…

Who could ask for a better destiny than that?

 **A/N: So that's it. Whew! Sincerest thanks to everyone who followed and favorited and especially to the reviewers. At this moment I'm leaning toward writing a sequel for this rather than moving on to something else – either the next up from my poll or another – but I can't say when I'll begin to post that. I'll probably put the first part of chapter 1 on the end of this story, though, so everyone who followed "Challenging Hostage" will know that "A Challenging Quest" is underway…**

 **Totally intentional pun.**

 **And, Merry Christmas a day late!**


	30. A Challenging Quest: Disappointment

**A/N: So I've started a sequel. The complete first chapter should be up under it's own story heading…**

 **A Challenging Quest**

 **Chapter 1: Disappointment: The Vagaries of Destiny and Fate**

 _(Mere months ago…)_

Mordred's eyes stung with tears and he let them fall. His hands were too grubby to wipe them away anyway.

Maybe he'd discovered his destiny after all. To be perpetually rejected and alone. To be meaningless and abandoned, to die unnoticed.

Weariness overwhelmed misery and he slept, curled up and hunched over in the roots of an old tree.

Some inadequate time later he woke to find a man standing over him, gray-streaked brown hair pushed back from his face and curving long to cover his ears. The man grinned widely through a patchy beard.

"Well, what do we have here?"

Mordred's eyes dropped to the battle axe hanging from a loop in the man's belt, next to a dagger as long as his arm, and he panicked.

Using magic to shove the stranger backward off his feet, Mordred scrambled up to run – too tired, too slow, too stiff and cold.

Too stupid.

Pain slammed through the right side of his jaw and his vision blanked long enough for him to tumble into the frost-hardened ground.

"Don't hurt him!" he heard a man's voice shout. "I want him alive! Did you see that? He has magic! He could be a-"

Mordred had to escape. Every part of him condensed to a core of agony and he _screamed_ , without making a sound.

But he'd misjudged his endurance.

He woke a second time to a thudding headache, the ground icy-hard beneath his cheek and shoulder and hip, a shaft of sunlight piercing winter cloud-cover and skeletal branches overhead to blind him with momentary tears. Twine rubbed his wrists numb and raw in front of him.

The long-haired, wide-mouthed man sat near him, tending a fire that roared confidence and pride in size and strength. He had Mordred's bag open between his feet, and was riffling through his meagre belongings. He gave Mordred a sideways glance.

"You're a druid," he stated.

Shifting in discomfort, Mordred realized that he'd been searched while he'd been unconscious, his clothing disarranged. They'd have noticed the triskelion tattooed on his chest, then. He said nothing, only stared dully at the stranger.

"I'm called Ragnor," the man added. "Are you on your own, boy? Running from Uther, perhaps?"

Mordred didn't answer.

"We could use your magic," Ragnor told him. "You'd have a place with us. It would be safer for you than trying to survive alone." He gave Mordred a nasty, leering sort of grin, and snickers echoed from unseen positions – all around him, it seemed.

Bandits. Mercenaries. It didn't matter – at least it didn't sound like they were going to turn him over to the knights of Camelot.

"I bet you're hungry," Ragnor suggested invitingly, leaning forward to snag a small pot from its place nestled in the coals at the fire's base, with the prod-stick in his hand. "Come, boy, have something to eat and tell us your name. Promise to use your magic for us and not against us, and we'll leave free your hands. That sounds fair, dunnit? Here we go…"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Balinor ached like he'd been fleeing for his life for days. Like he'd been sleeping on rocky ground and scraping for sustenance, muscle and nerves taut with constant strain of wary fear-

Why? He was safe in Ealdor, wasn't he? Hunith lingered over him – eyes, and smile, her hair unbound and almost drifting over his skin. He lifted his chin, needing, wanting – why did she hesitate and delay? – trying to lift arms too heavy and cold, arching his back from the bed in the hut-

The pallet in the cave-

If his lips could whisper, could form and force her name, she'd be real, she'd bend down to him and lie with him, warmth and comfort dearer than life itself, soothing his starved soul-

Balinor wrenched himself free of immobility, prying open closed eyes to sharp moonlight and deep shadow on rough natural stone walls. He was trembling; he swore breathlessly, repetitively. His words were echoed by a dripping at the far back of the cave where he dwelt, alone and yet not, anymore.

It was punishment. It was atonement. Who could say where one ended and the other began?

The oldest creature alive, maybe.

Balinor rolled off his pallet, finding his feet and leaving his cave.

The entrance was hidden from the path, a narrow treacherous track once used by the warily solitary creatures of the White Mountains, but he'd used it for nearly two years, as long as he and the other had resided there.

He turned his steps upward to the higher eyries. Even in the dark, his feet were sure on the path – sure, and weary, and slow. Maybe Kilgarrah was better than no company, but maybe…

The air was luminous pre-dawn gray by the time he reached his destination, but the eyes of the great dragon gleamed open. Kilgarrah shifted and the darkness of his bulk against the rest of the mountain resolved into a supine dragon shape. Balinor seated himself upon a nearby rock with a sigh, making no effort to keep his back straight or his shoulders up.

"I wish to speak of Ealdor," he told his hands.

The great dragon huffed. "You are as repetitive as a child."

…

"And Hunith?" he couldn't help insisting.

"She is not important to your destiny any longer." Kilgarrah gave a shudder that unfurled his wings, and launched himself off the side of the mountain as the first light of the sun shot over the horizon.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine didn't know quite what to say, standing at the mouth of the cave, hands on his hips, listening to the trickle of the stream and watching Merlin poke through the meagre belongings scattered through the interior. He breathed; it was marginally cooler here surrounded by rock and earth than under the thick green canopy of the forest while summer expired reluctantly toward autumn.

"For what it's worth," he offered. "I'm sorry."

Merlin grunted, abandoning a small table fashioned of lashed branches to inspect a natural shelf angling across one wall.

"I didn't really expect him to be here," the prince of Caerleon said absently, his thoughts otherwise occupied. "There's no space for a dragon anywhere near – it's thick forests and villages. Not that a great dragon needs a minder, exactly, I just thought… they might stick together, after escaping Camelot."

Gwaine grunted. No lie, he'd been anticipating meeting the man also. Curious if Balinor remembered him, as a very small child. Curious to talk to someone who'd known his father as a friend.

"But you're still disappointed," he commented.

"It was logical to start here," Merlin told him, moving away toward a darker corner and a bedframe. "I'd say no one's been here for a couple of years – maybe since he left to go to Camelot to free the dragon."

…

"My mother will be disappointed, though," Merlin told Gwaine over his shoulder, retrieving his reins and swinging up to his saddle.

"Can't really blame her," Gwaine agreed, mounting and directing his horse to follow Merlin's gelding.


End file.
